Home Is Where The Heart Is
by Joby87
Summary: For MysteryMadchen. Shortly after John's death, Sam becomes constantly fatigued and sick, but keeps it from his brother. Until one day he is unable to keep his secret. Afterwards it becomes a race to save his life and quite possibly...his brother's too!
1. Prologue

**Title**: Where the Heart Is.

**Author**: Joby87

**Began**: May 2009;

**Synopsis**: Shortly after their father's death, Sam becomes constantly fatigued, lethargic, and sick, but decides to keep it from his brother. Until one day he is unable to keep his secret. Afterwards it becomes a race to save his life and quite possibly…his brother's too.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters of Supernatural. That right belongs directly to Eric Kripke and his enterprise. I'm only entitled to the storyline (since it's an AU. That's the only thing that makes me feel special. ) Also, I do not own the right to the title. I sort of stole that from the movie with Natalie Portman and Ashley Judd (awesome and sweet movie btw).

**For MysteryMadchen:** Here it is girl! The long awaited story that I finally got off my tush to get started. Sorry for the wait. But I hope to redeem my tardiness with this multi-chapter edition. I sincerely hope you like it!

**Warning**: some heavy mature content lies ahead. I do not recommend anyone young or immature reading this. You have been warned!

**Prologue:**

The Colt 1911 pistol lye solely on the ornate pomegranate bedspread, conspicuously posed on one of the comforter's giant orchids. Its metal, just polished and refined, with its curvy engravings on the side glistened tauntingly in the motel's dim light.

Dean sat across from it on the other bed eying his favorite weapon intensely, his legs bouncing erratically whilst he bit and chewed the tips of his thumbs.

Sometime ago—he wasn't sure if it was before the dawning sun made its grand introduction to the day, or sometime after—his mind toyed with a choice. The several pints of alcohol residing in his system weren't strong enough to influence his decision as he had hoped. Outweighing the pros and cons had little effect as his whole body shook with neuroticism, in anticipation as though he was about to take on the World's Heavyweight Boxing Champion.

This choice he toyed with was a dismal one in fact. A choice any normal, mentally stable person would immediately say nay to. It was a choice he clearly hadn't wanted to make. But he had to make one soon—his brother's life depended on it.

He stole a glance at the white envelope with the name **Sam** scribbled boldly on the front leaning prominently on the flower-decorated pillow. Somehow maybe, his mind already had made the choice. It was just a matter of summoning up the guts to do it.

Fear fused with anger mixed with a little grief was a powerful combo overcoming any and all logic. The ramifications of this act he intended would be astronomical, but at least Sam would be alive. Never before in his life had he willingly contemplated something so unimaginable, so pathetic…so desperate. But when it came to his baby brother's well being, it didn't matter how high the costs were or how deep the abyss was to take a plunge. As long as Sam got to _live_…

Time was of the essence.

He knew that. The doctors had made that pretty clear that the sands of time were against them, almost like there was a hole punched in the hourglass and the tiny white particles were flowing in one heavy stream.

Sam didn't have long. Weeks. Days. Hell, minutes, maybe _seconds_. There was no telling. Only that with each second that went by in pondering about chances, the more his sibling's life dwindled away—further decreasing the _chance_ of ever opening his bright green eyes again.

And what was equally terrifying was that Sam's life solely depended on a sacrifice. A sacrifice no one in his or her right mind would willingly give—unless he or she weren't given a choice in an untimely demise. However morose it would seem to pray for such an event to occur, none of which would produce. The very fine cable he felt suspended on over a deep ravine thinned and wilted, edging him closer to falling into the pit of despair.

Already he had taken an unlikely fall into the dark place, falling fast after his father's death and the heavy burden of the man's _last message_. Already it had taken everything he owned, all the spit he had left to pull himself back from the horrible pit. And now he felt back on the brink with no support stand, no wire or rope to pull him back.

Last time he had help in overcoming the compilation of guilt and anger that accumulated at a steadfast rate after John's funeral pyre. Sam was the one to bring him back. Sam was the one and only to keep his head together, to keep him grounded. But now? His brother, his last remaining piece of family (besides Bobby), the one and only connection to his beloved mother, the spitting personality of his missed father, his friend and loyal companion—the very glue that kept him adhered together—was dying.

And if Sam died, it wouldn't be long until his time came too.

Technically speaking, he should currently have made his peace and be resting six feet under, hopefully either after a hunter's funeral pyre, or some heroic stand off. But as such, life had a very sick habit of keeping him around. But because he still had family, he had managed (just barely) to grit his teeth and move on. Continuing on with the life they led, alone, was too much to hear; too unbearable to even contemplate.

It wasn't his brother's choice they both were in this predicament. It wasn't Sam's fault that he was considering suicide. However much he would love to place the blame on someone…anyone! It was frustrating in that there was no one to blame, other than nature itself.

Giving one final look around the crummy third-rate room, he glanced past the bed and did a double take at the figure sitting next to the Colt. It was Sam. Plain as day, wholesome and healthy, his brother sat with his hands on his knees giving him the patented Sammy huff and headshake of disapproval.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean whispered to the imagined figure, what he was sure was imagined. "You know I have to. I can't do it Sammy. I can't. Dad said I had to take care of you. It's my job."

"Then how do you think I'm gonna feel," the voice of his brother's strong tone pronounced.

Dean flinched at how real it sounded, like the manifestation of his sibling was actually sitting across from him. He closed his eyes shaking his head. "I don't care. You've got to live. That's all I care about. You have a chance of a new life. You take that opportunity and you use it. There's nothing left for me here and you know it."

Sam shook his head donning a solemn look. "Don't do it Dean. It's the cowards route out, and you know Dad would be so disappointed in you if he knew what you were doing."

"Shut up!" Dean rasped harshly, glaring. "What that man put you through. Put me through…what he is _still_ putting me through…" he licked his lips as another tear fell. "I don't care Sammy. I'm done. This is the only way, and I'm sorry."

He turned his gaze away attempting to conceal the heavy emotion, not wanting Sammy to see his crippling stature. When he looked back, Sam was gone. A heavy sigh escaped past his cracked and bleeding lips.

However much he hated the figure adding more of the unwarranted burden on his shoulders, talking about their father, his cracked heart splintered some more in that he wanted to see Sam again. His brother was here, talking to him. He was awake, drilling more unneeded nonsense into him. Though peppy or not, the apparition was corporeal enough that he felt rather lonely since it disappeared.

And it was in that moment his decision became clear. Screw destiny. Screw life. If he had the chance of giving his brother life, then so be it. That was his destiny all along, one that he proudly accepted.

Immediately taking up the gun, he quickly put the metal end into his mouth. The device shook tremendously in his palms, his heart aching. The fear intensified the more his mouth closed in around the cold steel and a strained tear fell down his cheek.

The lightning bolt of doubt struck him then, and his finger on the trigger let up. His mind screamed at him to stop, but his will overcame the protests. Life without his family was no life at all. The thought of spending the rest of his life alone gave him the willpower. It was now or never.

Without another thought, he concentrated angling the gun up further.

_This is for you Sammy. I love you little brother_, he thought. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pulled the trigger.

**Now before all you Dean Fans give me hell, I strongly urge you to keep reading to find out what happens. This is just an excerpt from later on in the story. **

**There is a reason behind Dean's questionable hopelessness. Obviously since this is a sick Sam fic, you can pretty much guess from the aforementioned suspense of this chapter that the situation does become rather dire. IMO, based off of Dean's behavior following his father's death, and based on his action after Sam's death in Season Two, it wouldn't surprise me if he had taken this route. But that is based solely on my opinion…and opinions vary, obviously.**

**I do not intend to offend anyone by any means, and if I have? I apologize sincerely. **

**So with that said, I do hope that this makes you eager for the next part as we get to go back in time and see a familiar face in chapter two and the start of a whole host of problems for our youngest Winchester. **


	2. And So It Begins

**I certainly hope you won't be mad at me for not revealing what happened with Dean at the end of the last chapter, but it will be revealed soon, I promise. Now I have to say I'm setting this up differently than how I regularly see SickSam fics. You'll know what I mean if you keep reading. Enjoy!**

**Chapter One:**

**And so it begins**

_A year and half ago, Stanford University:_

Harsh coughs and ragged chokes in between gasps for air instantly woke Jessica Moore from her nightly rest. She rolled over and saw her boyfriend of a year and a half sitting on the edge of their queen size mattress, slumped over. "Sam? You okay?"

He didn't immediately answer. Concerned, Jess sat up and crawled over to his side, gently placing a hand on his hardened back. "Sam?"

"Yea," he rasped, coughing once again, "I'm…o-okay."

Still Jess couldn't shake the feeling something was amiss. "Sam, you're shaking," she announced feeling the slight tremble beneath her fingertips. The man didn't answer again.

Feeling the need to be helpful, she offered, "Do you want me to go get you something? Water? Or…"

"N-no," Sam responded shakily, "I'm…I'm fine. Don't worry. You can go back to sleep." To emphasize his point, he turned and gave her a small peck on the cheek.

Jess hardly knew what to make of it. The kiss was cold and empty, hardly having any of its usual warmth and affection. Certain skeptical feelings arose and she continued to look at him, noting the near translucent skin, the small tremor in his hands, and the glossy shine masking over his expressive green eyes. She was never one to put aside her feelings, always keeping her mind open with an upfront personality to match. Right now, for sure, she knew something had to be wrong.

For several days Sam had acted strange. Quiet. Tired; hardly having any of his quirky, determined energy, being somewhat depressed and hot as if he went out sunbathing for far too long. It wasn't hard to decipher that he may have been sick. When Jess addressed the oddity, he merely shrugged it off and continued on as though he were in some type of military regime—acting as though nothing was wrong. From then on, he hardly exhibited any other alarming symptoms, so she hadn't entirely stressed about it…until now.

Sam rubbed the side of her arm as another way of pressing the point. Reluctantly, she bit her tongue and lied back down. Sam, too, resumed his sleeping position beside her, drawing in long irregular breaths. Jess for the rest of the night kept a weary eye on the scrunched pained face and listened to the effortful intakes of air. The nagging worry about her boyfriend's well-being keeping her awake.

Morning dawned bright through the screened windows and still Jess had her eyes open. Her worry hadn't decreased any less even when Sam woke up and sluggishly pulled himself from the bed. Making slow stilted steps, his lumbering body stiffly disappeared from view. She knew he was going to class. Sam always went to class, sick or no. It was one of the many priorities that he held in high regard (she being the first!), and he never allowed anything to impede in his direction. It had occurred to her that she might be acting a bit paranoid; considering her healthy-as-a-horse boyfriend never contracted anything other than a bad cold.

But as it were her worry remained the same. An awful feeling settled in the bottom of her stomach, telling her—screaming—that something wasn't right.

Sam was long out the door by the time she showered, was dressed, and on her way towards her first lesson of the day. There was no kiss and smile that morning. No text. Not even the usual enamored note left on the kitchen table. That awful feeling resurfaced, resembling more of a box full of worms and snakes let loose within the confines of her gut. It wasn't pleasant, like a bad taste in her mouth, and it had remained that way for the remainder of the day.

…

In class, _Gibbering Gibbons_ was on a roll. The sociology professor blustered on in what he believed was a riveting lecture about the vast many poly-cultural norms and their rippling effects in a stratified economy. Occasionally laughing at his own jokes, he carried on like some fantasy-obsessed believer, regardless for the auditorium full of long absent looks and the several gaping contagious yawns—hence the dubbed nickname.

Jess's head fell back repeatedly, her mind nearing the boundaries of sleep. She watched through several long blinks the man scuttling back and forth on his little stage erratically. His flock of white hair and school-bus yellow necktie enacting like a medallion for hypnosis.

It was times like this she wondered what the hype was all about in receiving a higher education. Because boy! Did it come at a price?

Twice Jess had checked her watch in a five-minute time span, catching a glimpse of the other hundred of fireflies lighting up. It was the typical routine in a three-hour class: professor drones on, students check watches, students' jaws go slack and soon heads hit the desk. Whoever decided it would be fun to set up a three-hour lecture period was certainly high off his or her rocker and should be shot! Haven't they ever heard of restless leg syndrome?

It was two o'clock, and there was still another hour and a half to go. Jess shifted around in her seat. She was now restless. Despite keeping her focus on jotting down whatever notes she deemed necessary, her mind kept straying to Sam. The box of snakes slithered and wormed inside at the last image he left her that morning hardly letting up its persistence. She sighed. She was well over class by now.

Then suddenly a dreaded awful feeling almost like a cramping nausea struck. Something was wrong. She wasn't quite sure why, but a part of her wanted desperately to check on her boyfriend.

As if on cue, her cell went crazy, shimmying in her jeans pocket. Jerking in her seat, ticklish from the vibration, she fished it out. It read "new text message" on the bronze screen. Her usually soft and tranquil eyes shot open in horror at the message.

_From Rebecca: Sam's really sick. He's in the hospital. Get here ASAP. _

It was as though devastating earthquakes and tumultuous storms raged on the inside; Jess had never moved so fast. The Blue Rhapsody _Vera Bradley_ tote swung wildly around her hips as she strolled hurriedly down the carpeted aisle. The clickety-clacks of her flats echoed loudly causing every head to turn in her direction. She had barely made it to the exit door when the booming voice of good ole' _Gibbering Gibbons _thundered_._

"Uh excuse me Miss Moore! But where do you think you're going?" Gibbons practically shouted in his abnormally high-pitched voice.

Jess whirled around peering at the soc professor with a wild expression. "I'm…I'm sorry," she squeaked.

Gibbons narrowed his vision, shaking a grubby finger. "It is very rude to leave during a lecture. I'm sure whatever it is can wait. Please resume your seat."

"No can do sir, I have an emergency," Jess stated taking a large step backwards.

"Oh really?" the blundering professor mocked, "Is that so? Unless you have a note, I suggest you take a seat."

"Actually sir, I just received a very urgent message on my phone. My boyfriend became real sick and I need to go."

There was a shake of the head along with a bigger swivel from the grotesque finger. "I'm sorry, but that is not a legitimate excuse. More than likely your little boy toy is just dealing with a nasty hangover. That is in no way makes up an excuse for interrupting my class. He is not your first priority, _I am_. I won't tell you again to take your seat."

At the man's estranged comment and accusation, Jess was sure there was steam pouring out of both her ears. Waves of heat emanated from her cheeks and she was positive her face had turned a shade of crimson. No way was this nitwit of a person, a professor of an unnecessary _Gen Ed_ class, telling her what her priorities are. What gave him the right?

"I'm sorry to inform you sir…" she countered, her baby blue eyes ablaze, "but I have to decline your request. And I'm also sorry to have to tell you, because I know your desperate for popularity and all, but I don't give a _shit_ about your pathetic class or about the merit of ethnocentrism brought on an egalitarian society. For your 411, my boyfriend is part of my top priority and I need to see him in the hospital. So you can take your comments and shove em' up your lily white ass."

She left no room for a rebuttal. Sending another scornful look, relishing at the shock her little speech left on the cantankerous teacher and the many slack-jaws of her fellow comrades, she rushed out the door. Jimmie Johnson and his NASCAR crew couldn't hold accountable to the record-breaking speed she committed in running to her car and launching out onto the road.

…

Inside the small inpatient room was quiet except for the constant beeping echoing in the backdrop. Jess paid sharp attention to that annoying beep, continually reminding herself of the message it indicated. Alone with her unconscious boyfriend, she repetitively patted a damp cloth around the smooth face and neck, wiping off any beading perspiration.

For hours, she made the same movement, vigilantly keeping an eye on the tiniest of movements. Sam had yet to wake.

Nearly eighteen hours had passed since Jess arrived and still they were waiting for answers. Her two friends Rebecca and her brother Zack had left a couple hours prior. Rebecca had tried to stay as long as possible, anxious and tearful as they waited for the doctor to return. Zack had done as much as possible to console and act as a mounting block of support for his sibling, but soon there came a time where he felt he needed to take his sister home.

Jess gave her consent bitterly. Deep down, she didn't want to be alone while waiting, but a part of her understood Rebecca's reasoning—her former roommate's earlier hysterical cries still rang in her ears.

Upon arrival to the ER, Rebecca's typically straight and neat blonde hair was messy and wild, black eyeliner diamonds glistened at the bottom of her bloodshot eyes, and the usual cream-colored reflection was then the color of cauliflower. Without her hulk-like built brother standing beside her, no way would she had been able to stand straight.

"_He just passed out in class! It was so sudden! One minute he was sitting in the desk, taking notes, and the next, he fell…he was…he wasn't…" she confessed through stutters, her palms trembling fiercely. "And then he wasn't breathing." _

There was no need to explain that the girl had to perform CPR whilst waiting on the medics to arrive—her erratic behavior said enough.

The three friends practically walked miles within the small waiting quarters, incessantly hounding the nurses or any medical personal for news on a Sam Winchester. When at long last a nurse came in, they were disappointed to learn that the main physician in charge was not ready to speak in terms of Sam's case. However through much persuasion (and non-verbal threats), the nurse finally acquiesced in allowing them to visit Sam.

Inside a small room with another patient on the far side of the space, it was an eye-candy of a sight to see Sam on his side with a nasal cannula and breathing on his own. However painstaking dread rushed back with a vengeance at the chalk-white pallor in contrast to his normal bronzed skintone, and the lilac tinge to his lips. Jess non-hesitantly darted to her lover's side, highly relieved to be by him, to be in sight of him again. Gently patting his cheek, her eyes marbled at seeing the pair of slits open and the feverish glint of his mossy green shine through.

"Hey sleepyhead," she intoned, fighting hard to suppress the fear and anguish sounding in her voice. "Ya outdid yourself this time, didn't ya?"

The pale features cringed and Sam's head bucked at a small cough. "I…I'm s-so…r-ry," he whispered, emitting another short cough.

Jess smiled, keeping her game-face on. "Shhh," she soothed, "Don't be. It's just this one time that it caught up with you. It's all right. You can go to sleep now. I'm here, and I'm not leaving you." With a weak smirk, Sam did as he was told falling into a deep medicated slumber.

That was the last time she saw his eyes opened. Nearly a day later, she was still sitting by his side, running a hand through his unruly dark curls, sponging the sweat away with the damp cloth. His breathing had been irregular, on and off, long breaths, short breaths. Jess didn't know what to think of it. Not fully understanding what any of it meant it only upped her concern.

Nineteen hours and counting, someone _still_ had yet to make an appearance. Jess emitted out a small growl. This was ridiculous. Hardly classified as a patient person, the time was nigh to get some answers. Someone had to have known a little something by now?

Mapping out a plan of action that first involved beating the hallway nurse into broadcasting the damn doctor, she was about to put her plan into fruition. A tall man in a white jacket suddenly marched through the door carrying a folder of paperwork. The doctor with a head full of pepper-gray hair and bushy moustache stopped at Sam's cubicle, giving Jess a double take.

"Family of Sam Winchester?" he asked in an unusual sinisterly smooth voice.

Jess sat straighter in her loveseat. "I'm his girlfriend," she responded coolly.

The doc grimaced. "Does he have family?"

"Yes—"

"Then I'd rather wait to discuss Mr. Winchester's case until they have arrived," the physician interrupted, now beginning to walk out the door.

"Doc wait!" Jess called. She waited until the man turned his full attention back on her where she proceeded to give him a stern, yet victimized expression. "I have been waiting here for over eighteen hours. I'm slowly going insane not knowing what's happening to him. Yes, he does have family. He has a father and a brother out there somewhere and I have no idea how to get a hold of them…"

"They're not listed in his file?" the doc queried.

"No they're not. And to be quite honest, I've never met them. I've never even said Hi," she answered truthfully, "So for right now, _I_ am Sam's family. And I'll be taking care of any affairs or medical delegations he has, am I understood?"

"You're fully responsible for him?"

"Yes." For good measure, she added a twinkling smile.

"All right, that'll do," the man pulled up a chair, where Jess caught his bronze-plated nametag reading _Saffron Belemont M.D_, and underneath the bold print _Cardiac Specialist_. Uneasy suspicions rose, feeding into the snakes.

"So what is it? What's happening?" she asked, unable to keep the quiver out of her voice.

Doc Belemont opened the vanilla folder. "Well first off, I'm Doctor Belemont and I've been assigned to Sam's case. Now that the obvious is over, I'm sorry that you had to wait for so long. But when Sam was admitted, he showed signs of pulmonary edema and cyanosis and we had to work quickly to get him breathing regularly again. Afterwards there were several tests we had to perform to identify the cause. And according to those few tests…x-rays, bloodwork, ECG scans, Sam's shown an increase in his C-Reactive Proteins and Erythocyte Sedimentation Rate…"

"Doc," Jess smiled painfully. "Sorry to interrupt, but you're talking to a pre-law student. So unless you start giving me court analogies, just tell it to me in laymen terms all right?"

"Sure," Belemont smiled, his toothy grin revealing an unhealthy habit of too much coffee. "Basically the tests came back positive for _Myocarditis_ or inflammation of the heart muscle. It resembles a heart attack but doesn't have the causes such as a blockage in a coronary artery."

That uncertainty struck another harsh cord. From what she learned from watching ER and other medically related shows, anything with "—itis" at the end of it wasn't a good thing. "Is it serious?"

"It can be. So far we can give him antibiotics and other sorts of medicines prescribed just for this thing. But mainly if he's going to combat this, he needs rest and hardly any stress," Belemont informed sternly.

"No stress?" Jess nearly laughed. "Oh man. That's not good doc. He's got this very important interview coming up at the beginning of next month. The future of his college education depends solely on that interview. No stress in Sam's book is like asking for it not to rain."

"I'm sorry to hear that and I understand," Belemont suddenly narrowed his gaze. "But I strongly advise he puts on as little stress as possible or _there won't be an interview_."

Jess suddenly became a tad fearful. She kept herself composed, gazing determinedly into the doc's brazen face. "I like you," she admitted. "You don't beat around the bush. All right, so if he has myo—whatever. What could've caused it?"

"Actually there could be a number of causes, but what we found in his bloodwork was a virus to be the main cause. Has he had a fever or any flu-like symptoms prior before he was admitted?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "For the past week or so. But Sam is just so stubborn; he just kept on going, pushing himself. Nobody thought anything of it, except maybe it might have been a bad cold. Until the other night, when he woke up in the middle of the night coughing and gasping for air."

"Yeah it was the parovirus or specifically the B19 virus."

"A virus can cause a heart problem?" Jess sounded almost in disbelief.

"Oh yes," Belemont piped, shifting a little in his plastic chair. "It is the most common cause and it can infect even a healthy person like Sam. More than likely it was transmitted through either a crowded place or a classroom. There is no telling really. Once someone has the virus, they are contagious until they become symptomatic. At that point, it is inconceivable to know how far it can spread. Usually the virus can be treated, but in Sam's case since he obviously hadn't been treated, now it has affected his heart."

Belemont looked again at the file, pulling back a sheet heavily listed in statistics. "The only major concern that I have right now is that he may develop DCM or Dilated Cardiomyopathy, which is a known factor for Congestive Heart Failure."

Jess slowly became aware the rate of her breathing increasing, nearing onto the borders of a panic attack. She grew tense, a heavy shade of moisture coating her pulsing orbs, her throat constricting making it difficult to speak.

"He hasn't reached that stage yet," Belemont went on, "Myocarditis can and most of the time does lead to it. We've run a few more tests and the results hopefully will reveal to us how much damage has occurred and if it will cause heart failure in the future."

"Uh…um, what is it?" Jess found her voice, though raspy and brimming with emotion.

"DCM?"

"Yes."

The doc took a full breath. "DCM is basically a condition that weakens his heart and enlarges it making it difficult to pump blood to the rest of the body, increasing his chances of contracting serious heart failure. Think of it as a trail of dominoes falling down. The B19 Virus he contracted caused the Myocarditis or the inflammation in his heart to occur, and if he doesn't take care himself, that in turn will develop into either the Cardiomyopathy or something else problematic and _once that occurs_, it triples his chances for Congestive Heart Failure."

It was official. Jess couldn't speak.

Belemont's gaze lightened. He added with a small smile, "But we're doing all that we can for him right now to make sure that doesn't happen. I'm sure he'll be stable enough to leave here in a few days, but like I said he needs to take it easy for now on. Stay on his antibiotics, and whatever medicine we do happen to prescribe. It's essential Sam takes his medicine while we're waiting on the results. Am I understood?"

"Yes," Jess nodded sullenly, a tad overwhelmed with the vomited information. "How long do you think the results will take?"

"A few weeks. We'll either contact you through the phone or ask you and Sam to come back in, but you'll also receive a copy through the mail."

"Okay. But just to make sure, he doesn't have heart failure?" she clarified.

"Right. That's what we're trying to avoid. Heart failure can be a fickle thing and there are no absolutes. Medicines only work so much and in the worst-case scenario, he'd have to undergo a transplant. So it is imperative he takes it easy. No strenuous activity. No junk food. No alcohol, at least not for a while. As for an exercise regimen, I would advise seeking an athletic counselor," the doc advised, now closing the folder.

"Doc," Jess's eyes misted, "What happens if he does come down with DCM?"

"Then we'll have to take the necessary procedures, but…it's too early to confirm anything just yet. This is all just precaution. We'll know more soon."

"All right. Thank you and you betcha I'll keep him on a tight leash and make sure he takes care of himself."

"Good," Belemont smiled. "Well now I'm off to continue my rounds. I'll be back soon to give to begin his round of antibiotics. If you will page a nurse in if he wakes up within that time. There are several things I need to discuss with him as well."

"Okay, I'll do that."

With a short nod, the lean doctor rose from his chair and left, leaving Jessica in a more exasperated and troubled state. The thought in trying to contain her boyfriend for the next month stress free and somewhat restricted to exercise knowing how important it was to him was not comforting. Still the nagging worry persisted, and she wanted to vomit. Though relieved that the cause for Sam's apparent sickness was now revealed, the news hadn't made her feel better, it only made her feel worse.

Tossing the bushel of curly blonde hair over her shoulder, she laid her head down beside her one-and-only-man, again running a hair through his hair, listening to the slow and uneven breaths. The anxiousness and impatience honed in again and she sighed. The results of the tests wouldn't be here for a while. Already, three weeks seemed like an eternity away. She only prayed that the doctor's grim prognosis would not occur.

…

Three weeks later there was a fire in the couple's apartment, killing one occupant and destroying all its contents including the unopened hospital addressed red envelope stating "urgent" at the top of the stack of mail.

**It's sad, I know. I'm aware that not much is known about Jess's personality. But given what I had seen from the few times she appeared, I got the impression she would be stouthearted. So this was my take on what Jessica may have been like if ever Sam had become deathly ill.**

**Also, I'm aware that in a real auditorium-like classroom, a professor wouldn't give a hoot's ass if a student left…but for this chapter, the dude was obstinate about it. But more so, it was a way to show what Jess was like under pressure. **

**Okay so now you guys know what's up with Sam and now you know what's pretty much going to happen. Now it's only a matter of what will happen with him from now on and if he will tell Dean about what happened the month before he picked him up. **


	3. Mirror Mirror

**Hey guys, well…now we're at the beginning. Title came from one of my favorite Def Leppard songs!**

**Chapter 2:**

**Mirror, Mirror (Look Into My Eyes)**

_New York, Eight months earlier:_

When Sam woke one dreary morning, he knew something to be very wrong. It wasn't just the bitter taste in his mouth, or the way he had slept peacefully for the first night in ages. Nor was it the uneven intakes of air that strangely caught his attention.

It was the pain.

His eyes snapped open to the dimly lit room around him, slowly adjusting so that the nightstand beside the ratty motel bed focused into view. Involuntarily his hand shot to his chest grasping his left pectoral hard, a tad astounded at the drum-beating throb beneath the palm. His heart beat enormously, almost having the appeal that it was attempting to burst out of its bony prison.

It had been approximately eight months since the last time he felt this pain…dangerous hunts included. The sharpness doubled, the hammering action increasing its tempo as he fought to sustain a large breath. He sat up, unfurling the covers off his lean legs, still clutching at his chest.

Sam concentrated in pulling in the much-needed oxygen. Silence was what he prayed for in that moment; afraid the staggering gasps he made would wake his brother who slept soundly in the bed across from him.

The battle raged on within him, the knife-like pains acting as a whole battalion marching and attacking the small camps that was his lungs and outer extremities. And he knew it was all because of his heart muscle. The sinister enemies were gunning for it like it was a gold mine, and nearly had taken siege it felt. Recognition of the sharp shooting pain fluttering inside his chest cavity only brought back unwarranted memories, and it terrified him.

He remembered Jess and the stern emphasis she yielded in telling him after his last hospital visit that everything regarding his heart would be fine—as long as he went about his daily routine lackadaisically and barely stressing.

With her by his side, he did just that—giving up his daily sustenance of Ramon Noodles and soda, exercising regularly, and developing a whole new affliction-free study habit. Hardly did he stress over any minute detail, even the important life-on-a-silver-platter interview he took with a light ease. Jess had helped him through it all for those last few weeks, and saw to it that he regained back his health. Nearly eight months ago, he had yet to see the results of the doctor's tests that supposedly were coming in the mail.

However, nearly eight months ago, his life took an unexpected turn for the worst.

The Saturday before the important Law School Interview was scheduled, his brother turned up amazingly after two years and asked…no, pleaded with him to help him find their father who had suspiciously disappeared. After following up on the hunt John supposedly had undergone, it turned out that their father had left the hunt definitely, but was not dead. Sam was adamant he returned to school and to Jess, knowing exactly how he was feeling. The ache and the fever may have been gone, but the soreness or the fatigue from his stay in the hospital had yet to leave.

But as it turns out, it didn't matter how sick he was feeling. The night he returned to Palo Alto, some unknown entity had made a visit to his apartment and had killed the one and only love of his life in the most brutal way. Remembering the shocked expression of Jess's face, the blood coating her silky nightgown, or the way she was pinned up on the ceiling had cut him deep, the guilt and anguish crippling like a festering wound.

For weeks…no, months, he'd dream of her like that, at the way hot searing flames lit up engulfing her body, taking her and the entire apartment in fire. The image was forever burned in his brain, the memory so vivid, he could still feel the heat of the fire against his skin. Since that night, all thoughts concerning his own health had flown out the window like a freed sparrow, the darkness and rage settling in, burdening his mind. Since the night Jess was murdered, there was newfound energy flowing through his veins, a newfound motivation to carry on past his guilt and grief: revenge.

Hardly a minute or a day has passed that he refused to let up. From the moment Jess was given the final blessing and lowered into the ground, he became an unnatural born killer, seeking the one thing that destroyed his life. With his brother by his side, each and every day they scoured for sources, leads, tidbits of information leading to Jess's killer. Simultaneously they searched endlessly for their father, believing as such he was hunting the same thing; if they found him, they would inevitably find the culprit, in hopes of ending the long and exhausting crusade that took up the entirety of their lives.

And they were so close. A month, maybe two, before now, he and his brother were finally reunited with their father, now actually discovering the reasoning behind his absence, and what exactly were they hunting: a demon. However, an encounter with one of the demon's main adjuncts—a spiteful tempestuous demon named Meg—had the small family separated once more, and the boys back at square one.

Since being back at square one, he and Dean had done all they could in finding new hunts, tracking down new leads, living each and every day like it was the end of the world. There was nothing else left to do until their father had come calling again.

So now it seemed a tad inconvenient for his earlier illness to possibly be popping up again. No way was _it_ back! It couldn't be! Not now when he was so close in tracking down their father again and finding Jessica's killer.

But no! What he had was a virus. It went away after his stay at Stanford's main clinic, along with the jabbing muscle spasms rocking and rolling in his chest. He hadn't been sick in the following months, not even suffering something inane like the common cold.

Sam continued to focus on breathing through the sharpness. Already the stabbing seemed to dull out; receding less the longer he slowed down the intakes of air. The more the pain receded, the more at ease his mind succumbed to. Perhaps it was a fluke? A reminiscent piece of his past he was paranoid to occur again? Either way, with his father now MIA after the confrontation with Meg, and with the tracking down the demon responsible for his mom and his girlfriend, there wasn't any time to be dealing with any ailments.

Besides, why would the problem of all times come back now?

Simply he surmised, it wouldn't. That piece of his past was over…_right?_

Sam hadn't fully relaxed until the last of the sharp pains went away. Slowly sucking in a large breath, he fell back onto his pillow, salvaging the last few minutes before his brother and all his glory woke up and carried on with the current hunt of the week. The pain was a coincidence, that's all. Nothing to get entirely worked up over. He was just entirely stressed over the past several months and hadn't slept as well as he would have liked, and so this was his body signaling to back off a bit. Slow down. Rest up before the final fight. And if that was all it was, then everything was fine.

Well, that's what he wanted to believe.

…

_Callow Springs Cemetery, Ohio, Eight months ago:_

"Sam_, look out!_"

The shriek of his brother's voice suddenly pierced through the murky fog that temporarily had invaded his mind. Sam snapped his eyes open, unaware he fell into a light doze and quickly caught the glimpse of something heavy flying fast towards him. He ducked in time to see a tombstone crash into the dirt beside his head, sending tufts of dirt up a good foot in the air, splashing chunks of grass and sodden rock into his hair and jacket.

"Sam!" his brother's worried voice called again. Dean tried to scramble out of the rectangular hole.

Sam quickly caught his breath and turned to see the ethereal apparition of _Clayton Lovett_, the former engineer, stalk towards him with the meanest scowl he had yet to see on a deceased person. Sam picked up the shotgun by his side and blasted good ole' _Calamity Clayton_ full of rock salt, the jettisoned particles disintegrating the ghost into thin air. Panting at the close call, Sam gave a silent _thumbs up_ indicating for his brother to carry on with the shoveling.

"Pay attention, will ya!" Dean ridiculed picking up his shovel from deep inside the pit and shoving it downward.

Raising the sawed-off in a hail salute, Sam rolled his eyes taking post as guardsman while Dean continued to dig up the supposed murderer's tomb. A couple weeks after leaving Sarah's in upstate New York, the brothers heard about a possible haunting on an out-dated railroad track. Three deaths were known to have occurred, the remains appearing as though they were "de-_spine_-inated"—evident by the autopsy photos none too appealing to look through as the bodies spinal cords were ripped clean out leaving a long gaping trench in the person's back.

Following the pattern that the deaths occurring at a specific time during the same week that happened on a biannual basis, the Winchesters narrowed the culprit to a Clayton Lovett, a freight train engineer, who was murdered back in the late twenties. Supposedly Clayton had an ill-received affair with one of the town official's wife, and one night in a rage had beaten the frail woman to death. No legitimate evidence was brought forward to condemn the accused, and so no charges were filed. However, the victims' family took justice into their own hands and kidnapped Clayton, chained him down on the tracks, and used a railroad spike puller to pry his spine from his body. Afterwards they took his spineless corpse and threw it into an oncoming railcart.

Anyone apparently matching the personality or resemblance to his murderers was found killed in much the same way he had.

Locating the cause and the casket in a nearby cemetery, the boys' game of Rock, Paper, or Scissors determined who would dig the grave—Dean's habit hand of Scissors always losing against Sam's hand of Rock.

Having already torched the half-mile of railroad track just for safe measures— for any blood remains or tissue samples— the boys weren't taking any other chances and decided to hit the cemetery. County archives gave a detail analysis of what remains were found and were buried. So for two hours, Dean was at work in shoveling up the grime and the century of sedimentation layers to get to Lovett's funeral box. And it was during that time when Sam felt an unnatural cold over his body and he accidentally fell asleep.

Clayton hadn't shown and Sam felt himself falling under again, the weight in his lids taking on a ton it. He hadn't a clue why he was so tired all of a sudden. It was only natural to assume that the few hours of sleep he rewarded himself with each night had to be catching up with him.

"SAM!"

Dean's shout alerted him again and he jerked awake, only to see the bloody shredded corpse of Clayton in front of him glaring with red eyes. Before Sam had time to react, he was in the air, his arms completing a windmill action as he landed with a grunt over another chipped and weathered tombstone. A nasty warbling sensation filled his head and it was then he heard Dean's voice reverberating in the background, echoing in his head as though he were shouting underwater. Clumsily Sam staggered to his feet just as the skinny form of his brother flew past, Dean's head bouncing off a slab of concrete.

There was a gigantic "_oomph_" and a blatant "_son of a bitch_" and Dean turned a dangerous snarl his way, the nice stream of red adding to the intimidating effect. With a shaky finger, Dean pointed past his shoulder to which Sam immediately whirled around and let off another shot. Clayton dissolved immediately. He turned back to Dean and cringed sheepishly giving a shrug.

Dean grit his teeth. "Whatsamatter with you? Get over there and shoot the sonuvabitch, so we can finish this," he demanded irritably. He wiped away the trickle of blood off his head, and at a jog went back to the casket hole.

Sam sluggishly looked around, shaking his head as a bout of dizziness washed over just as the warbling sensation faded. He let out a ragged breath as Dean pulled out the lighter fluid and salt can from their storage bag. Sprinkling the rotten leftover remains in the tiny white particles, along with dousing them in the flammable liquid, Dean lit a match ready to torch the sucker. That was until he noticed the two ends of the shotgun pointed downward at his two little boys, and he freaked, accidentally dropping the match.

"Whoa dude! Whatcha doing?" Dean nearly shrieked.

The assailing dizziness quickly evaporated and Sam peered innocently into Dean's shocked expression. "What? Oh. Sorry. Sorry," he apologized directing the gun the opposite direction.

Dean squinted at him. "You feelin' okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

At the immediate rushed response, clearly Dean wasn't convinced—but it wasn't like there was any time to feel for fevered and flushed cheeks. "Ya could've fooled me. Pay attention…this freak ain't—"

Clayton was back, and all Dean saw before he took another flight on Ghostline Airways was a pair of pale hands with lopped off fingers. The ghost quickly threw him out of the way like he was an unwanted rag-doll, rushing towards Sam who was in the midst of interchanging ammunition. Sam barely had the gun cocked when Clayton emitted a loud roar swinging his arm out directly into his chest.

It was like a sledgehammer being walloped into his sternum and a loud pained gasp escaped as he somersaulted across the hole. Cringing with hurt, Sam rolled over fumbling for the shotgun. Seconds later, a pair of perforated leather boots appeared in his line of sight and an icy hand grappled the back of his jacket partly lifting his lean frame off the ground. Reactively Sam shoved the gun over his shoulder and pulled the trigger, where he was rewarded from his victory by falling back to the sodden grass.

"Hurry Dean," he called.

Immediately he saw his brother shake his head and scramble to his feet using the base of a tree. A puff of mist floated from Sam's mouth and he knew then Clayton had materialized once again. Clayton's heavy boot suddenly stomped down on Sam's back, pinning him to the ground. Immediately cold fingers found their way to his neck yielding to a severe white-hot pain. Sam let out a long wretched cry imagining his spine slowly being torn from his back.

Then as swift as the gust of wind shot through, the pain was gone, and the unnatural coldness lifted. Clayton's scream of anguish resounded through the empty graveyard as his spirit lit up in flames, carrying on with the journey into the afterlife, finally at peace, and finally able to leave the residents of _Callow Springs_ for good.

Sam achingly rolled over, stifling a moan at the acute sensitivity in his back, the hot needle-like throbs de-crescendoing to an aching tingle. Feeling the nuclear heat emanating from inside the hole, he glanced up and saw the flickering light, and his brother standing over the aperture with a gloating smirk of triumph.

"Check that off the to-do list," Dean said, bending over and picking up the weapons bag. He trudged around the hole and offered a hand, which Sam took appreciatively. Slumping over slightly, still cringing at the soreness pulsing from his chest, Sam caught the inquisitive look in his brother's face, and prepared himself.

"Everything alright with you?" It was a question, but it sounded and felt more like a demand for an answer.

Sam sighed. "I'm fine," he answered, giving yet another little evasive shrug.

"Then what the hell happened tonight man?"

"I'm sorry, I just dozed off a little bit."

Dean huffed, completely astonished. "Dozed off? Sorry? Well sorry ain't gonna cut it. I told you I need you sharp. This could've ended real badly, and then what? No more staying up late at night. You get to sleep or I swear I'll stomp your ass into the ground," he stormed off, wiping again at the fresh gash along his forehead.

Sam gave his own patented worn-out huff, rolling his eyes for the umpteenth time that day. That wasn't the first time he heard the harsh threat, nor was it probably going to be the last.

His brother sounded like a real jerk sometimes, but Sam knew the truth. Whenever Dean was worried about something, he'd used either sarcasm or bitter statements to mask his feelings. Worry was always part of his forte, however much he can deny it. And Sam knew that if whatever happened tonight occurred again, he was going to have Big Brother breathing down his back, acting like a ridiculous mother-hen, treating him like a child—like they were kids all over again. He could almost laugh. Sometimes things never change.

Tired and sore, Sam grabbed the forgotten shovel and slowly traipsed back to the Impala, where his sibling had the classic motor on and running. After stowing the shovel and the shotgun away in the trunk, he carefully settled into shotgun, wincing at the stabbing in his chest again. An involuntary gasp came out unexpectedly when another unsuspecting spike of pain bolted through. He clutched at his sternum, kneading small circles into the bruised flesh and inhaled meditatively through the pain again, like the way he had done it the few times before.

Slumping more into the confines of the passenger seat, Sam continued to work on mollifying the sharp sensitivity, unaware of the concerned pair of eyes ogling at him from the seat over.

"Sam, you alright?" Dean asked, a bit curious at the strange breathing sounds his brother was making.

Sam jerked at the question. "What? Y-yeah, I'm fine. Its just… the sucker hit me hard. S' nothing too bad."

Dean raised an eyebrow, as he reached to shift the car into gear. "Okay? Just checking to see if you're feeling alright."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'll be okay. I'm sure of it," Sam gasped, before muttering inaudibly under his breath, "At least I think so."

**Uh-oh, Sam now is starting to wonder. And will the big oaf get checked out? You can pretty much guess…no! He's just stubborn like that. But he won't be like that for long. Thanks for reading. I'm going out of town this weekend for a friend's graduation, so there won't be an update this weekend, but the next one should be up and running real soon.**

**Ta-ta! **


	4. Die Hard the Hunter

**Shizzle nizzle…whatever that phrase is! Shiskcabobs, we'll go with that! Sorry this is late, but I'm still suffering from the aftermath of the season finale. Holy Crap, I don't think I ever cried so hard for a TV show in my life. That episode rocked in so many ways, and was (for me) emotionally crippling!**

**And I'm sorry, but the scene where Dean came riding in the Impala like he was the sheriff of the town, blasting **_**Def Leppard's Rock of Ages**_**, interrupting the fight of the galaxy…that has to be my favorite scene of the entire series! It's scenes like that, that are the reason I watch this show! Damn, I can't wait for season 6.**

**Whoa! Okay, I'm cool now!**

**All right, back to this…things begin to get worse for Sam. Careful there is some bit of violence in this chapter. Title came again from (surprise, surprise) **_**Def Leppard**_** (my all-time favorite classic rock band!) Enjoy!**

**Chapter 3: **

**Die Hard the Hunter**

_Outside Jefferson City, Missouri, Six months ago:_

Despite being in the middle of July in the midst of a dehydrating and devastating heat wave, there was a humbling coldness settling in Sam's bones, keeping him taut and miserable.

Flickering orange and red flames rose high, pitching for the heavens. He stared long and hard into them. Scores of ashes and smoking bits of wood popped up and out showering over his hair, his face, and body, but he took no care in it. The searing heat alone singed and ate at his skin, threateningly taunted to devour him whole, and he wanted to cringe away from the pain, to seek shelter from it, but didn't.

The fire was infinitesimal compared to the fire burning in his heart. It held no power over the pain he felt in staring dead at the Hellish flames, or the black smoke swirling up from the swathed figure lying upon the fiery pyre. There was no comfort. No place to hide from the pain, or the guilt. There was nothing left to do but stand and watch as the wooden structure became engulfed in a torrent of red, yellow, and black, taking away one of the few good things in his life—his father.

Hot angry tears freely fell from Sam's sore eyes, sliding along newly created tracks, dissolving into the warm bruised skin. His body sang with aches, his arms shaking. With the adrenaline over the last few days wearing off, it brought full awareness of all the twinges and soreness from the recent disastrous car wreck. Though it wasn't solely responsible for his trembling. He shook with guilt, and fear, and worry; still suffering from the debilitating blow from finding his father so still and unresponsive.

_Dead._

Confusion was an ever-present hedge-like wall buttressing the maze of nonsensicality that he found himself lost in, and there was no way of escaping it –unless he had some dynamite and a string. It still was hard to hear, to believe, or to even face the reality his Dad was gone. It was so sudden, happening so fast, he felt like he was still on the wild malfunctioning merry-go-round of the last seventy-two hours, pleading desperately for the spinning to stop.

John was alive. He was fine (busted a little), but nevertheless wholesome and healthy. He was walking, talking (albeit arguing). So the sudden drop in body temperature didn't make sense.

How could he have passed like that?

So quick, hardly anyone took notice.

The doctors had claimed no known cause of death. The thought that the demon may have something to do with John's sudden demise was far too unsettling to even consider, much less think about. If the Yellow Eyed Demon had killed him off, much was certain that he'd soon be back to take care of the rest of the Winchester clan.

It was a miracle they all had survived at all. Several days earlier Sam and his family had at last tracked down and found Jessica's killer, their _mother's_ killer. It was the confrontation of their lifetime, only with the YED gaining a hand up on he and his brother by possessing their father. With John's body harboring the cold-blooded methodical monster, he had no control over his actions and psychologically tortured and nearly killed Dean by whatever psychic _mojo_ he contained. With Sam and Dean incapacitated by said _mojo_, they were fair game, ripe for the pickings.

However, Sam, either by accident or by some higher power, was able to overcome the force pinning him to their cabin's wall, grab the Colt (their magical demon killing gun), and hinder the demon by shooting John in the leg. Though John was able to control the demon within him temporarily, demanding to Sam that he shoot him in the heart right there and now to end this entire struggle, Sam failed to pull the trigger not at all willing to kill his father. Thus the YED escaped from John's body and fled.

At that point, it wasn't clear if the demon would show again, but as Dean was gravely injured and was in dire need of a hospital, there wasn't any other choice but to move on. It was in route to a medical facility not too far away when a Semi Truck had plowed into the Impala, smashing into the passenger side. A demon had crashed into the car. Sam only had woken up a mere second when the demon came ripping off the door, and he frightened it away with the Colt.

The glass shattering and the angry squeal of scraping metal still grated upon Sam's ears. The horrible stench of burning fuel and sulfur plagued his nose, and he wondered if ever he'd be free from the nauseating feel to the flashbacks. Even as he watched and listened to the flames flicker and crack, the chopping action of the medic's helicopter could be heard loud and clear, triggering the memory.

The sun was hot, baking him like a slab of roast beef on a hot plate. The wind glided roughly through his blood-caked dark locks as the gurney he lied on was moving fast. He shifted uncomfortably, assessing the entire personal running alongside.

"_Tell me if their okay," he called out loud to no one in particular, trying hard to sit up and see his brother and father, squinting hard against the blinding ball of light._

"_You have to stay still," a female paramedic ordered. _

"_Are they even ALIVE!" he screamed in anger, but yet his tone was full of desperation. His question went unanswered. _

The loud calls for his family and the agonizing silence that ensued echoed fiercely, replaying in his head like a busted radio-loop, toying with his sanity. After so long, his mouth fell silent having no more energy left to utter a word, and he remained that way, quiet and restless for the duration of the trip. Loud directive voices clamored and vibrated all around making it difficult to discern, and he felt sick in attempting to focus on them. All he managed to comprehend was various orders of medical jargon about his own condition, and nothing as to the condition of his family.

Throughout cleanup and the little amounts of patchwork, Sam was a twitching mess, shaking, and nervous after the hours or so of the standard checkup and recovery procedures, but otherwise felt functional. The blame for the wiry state of his nerves and jitteriness solely was placed on anticipation of seeing his family. Sam was adamant in seeing his brother—as Dean was not in too good of a shape before the wreck happened. However, the doctor was far more adamant that he was properly checked, and it left Sam a bit temperamental.

The doctor, a young dark-haired guy having somewhat of an iconic similarity to _Dr. Sexy_ with the chiseled chin, broad muscular shoulders, and model-envy hair, had completed the standard procedure in evaluating his eyes, hearing, motor reflexes, and whatever else that was included. He unwrapped the pressure cuff after checking his blood pressure muttering aloud "a little low" before jotting down the number on the chart. Sam rolled his eyes in impatience, sighing in discontent when Dr. Sexy pulled off the black stethoscope and placed the cool device on his back, instructing him to inhale and exhale deeply.

Sam did as he was told and grudgingly allowed the young doctor to finish, fidgeting some more when the guy pulled open his front shirt and began listening to his heartbeat. Long seconds went by turning into a grand minute and still the cool device was pressed against his chest. The guy sure had liked to take his time. The doc flinched twice lifting the round metal off before placing it again, donning once again that squinty look of confusion.

"Hmyph," he huffed. "Perhaps I need to do another test."

Sam had to admit the comment had caught his attention, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Immediately he stood up and began to leave when the man pulled away and began to scribble down more numbers.

"Whoa! Where are you going?" the guy asked, eyeing him inquisitively behind square-rimmed spectacles.

Sam hesitated. "Sorry, but I gotta go. I gotta see if my brother's okay," he protested.

"Not just yet Sam. We're not finished," Dr. Sexy informed him, "I really do think—"

"Doc, I'm fine. I feel fine. See"—he raised his split knuckles and wiggled his fingers—"Nothing's broken. I'm sure I'll be a bit sore, but right now I really need to check on my brother. Again, I feel fine."

Dr. Sexy stood to his full height. Though he was tall, he still fell a head shorter than Sam. "But Sam, I seem to be hearing something differently—"

He never got a chance to finish that statement.

"No," Sam said. "We're done." And he walked out leaving no room for a protest, mentally thanking whomever when the young doc's name was called over the intercom. Rushing to the service desk and signing AMA, Sam didn't stop moving until he were several more floors up and in Dean's designated room.

The shit literally hit the fan after that. Dean's condition had worsened far more than they expected and he was lying in a coma with no hope of waking up. Soon somewhere along the line Sam found that Dean's spirit was walking—probably flaunting—in the hospital, tracking down a reaper. Later his father disappeared and returned when Dean miraculously woke up contusion and edema free, with no recollection of anything that happened.

It was mere minutes later when Sam found his Dad's body lying on the floor of his hospital room.

And all that he could think about was one of the last things he said to him…_ "You're not thinking about anybody but yourself. It's the same selfish obsession…Go to Hell."_

Still angry, hurt, confused, and scared, Sam knew he never meant any of those things…but his father might have, and now just the thought that his Dad would never know he still loved him made him shrivel with heartache. The fire in his chest grew larger, bringing with it a heavy ache that tripled the tightness already wading there. He couldn't quite understand what it was, although guilt was a downright good candidate.

Still it hurt. Hell, everything hurt. It was too much for him to bear, and he was too sore, too ill with grief, and too overloaded with his own personal guilt to even think, to even consider moving on from this point.

His brother hadn't said a word since they set the funeral pyre alight, just stared absently into the fire next to him, numb, and heart-broken. Dean hadn't spoken much since the doctor proclaimed those heart-wrenching words: _Okay, that's it everybody. I'll call it. Time of death 10:41 a.m._

All lingering thoughts in believing he and his brother could get through this sudden time of grief together was gone in a flash, like freaking superman on deep-fried crack added with a dose of steroids.

Though he wasn't expecting it to be any different. Grief was never something Dean took with a quiet and tranquil phase in shelling off from the world temporarily like some people do. Quiet and near solicitude was always the first sign, and then it would be the constant quips and sarcastic snips before the irritable snapping would begin…and then before anyone could bat an eye, all hell fury would come raining down like he was his own Yellowstone Supervolcano.

And with how he immediately shut up and kept his lid tight…boy, was it going to be a shit storm?

Sam shifted nervously from foot to foot still staring into the fire, watching his father's remains burn away. The nausea increased ten fold while standing and he blinked feeling the tightness in his chest expand. If anything, his chest felt like a rubber band stretched out to its breaking point, and now the edges were beginning to tear. Idly he wondered if he should tell his brother about how he was feeling, but decided to stay quiet. He had something more pressing to say.

"Before…before," he stuttered, sniffling loudly. "Did he say anything to you? About anything?"

He wasn't expecting an answer, but was deeply surprised when he heard the barely audible "No, nothing."

Dean didn't turn his way and said nothing else. Sam took that as the cue to not speak anymore. Whatever other feelings and comments he may have had could wait. All that was left to do for the rest of the night was mourn their father's passing, trying desperately to cherish his memory before it was lost forever.

…

_A bar-side grill outside Sioux County, South Dakota, two weeks later:_

For what it was worth, Sam tried his best to eat. However, the stainless steel fork in hand lazily wove in and out of his Caesar salad, flipping over the flaky lettuce leaves, digging up and spooning the many crusty croutons. He eyed each piece with a look of disgust, searching for a decent portion to stomach, fighting hard to cramp the nausea that unsurprisingly returned.

It wasn't that the salad might have looked like something the dog had puked up; it was more that he just wasn't hungry for it. He hadn't had much of an appetite over the past couple of weeks. Though he was half expecting it to be that he still felt guilty over his father, but something else seemed to be going on. Each time food was served or even mentioned, that God-awful nausea constantly would make its grand appearance. And he found himself each time picking uninterested at anything set in front of him.

Dean hadn't noticed, of course. His brother was oblivious to most things lately. So much, it had Sam wonder if he would even have noticed if a meteor the size of Texas crashed into the Earth, destroying everything in a suffocating dust blanket, and spurred on a nuclear winter. It was like he was in his own little world, _Dean's World_.

Otherwise all Sam would be hearing about his eating pattern, or lack thereof, is the usual nasty line "suck it up, and eat before I pound you into a pulp," like he had heard so many times before when he was a kid. But this time, as they were still so fresh from burying their father there was hardly any room for conversation.

Dean continued to eat hastily and determined at his own meal, his eyes never straying from his plate. Sam noticed the gusto his brother was eating, as though he were a starving ravenous fiend let loose on a poor cow. And it only upped his concern for his brother's mental state, thinking back to how much time and devotion he spent into fixing up the car.

Sam didn't blame him. Working on the car was the only thing that kept Dean grounded and not blowing up like he expected. In a way, he cherished it!

Finished with playing with his food, deciding it wasn't worth attempting to stomach, Sam looked up, noting the rest of the cozy restaurant atmosphere. He took a long deep breath, closing his eyes away from the dim hazy lighting, still fighting off the nausea. A thought then occurred to him that maybe he was coming down with something. Several times over the past month or so, fast and somewhat crippling vertigo attacks would strike, leaving him breathless and numb. Already he felt one coming on the longer he sat at the table.

Sam sat taller in his seat, now starting to feel a stinging ache beginning in his back. Pushing the plate away, that's when he began to feel his hands go numb and take on an uncontrollable shake, the rest of his body giving way to a surge of weakness. Several horrifying thoughts slammed into him, worried about how quick this attack sprouted. Perhaps it was he consumed too much alcohol in a short amount of time. He glanced at his cup. It was barely sipped.

He looked to his brother. "You almost done?" he asked in a rush.

"Does it look like I'm done?" Dean responded, still not looking up from his plate.

"No," Sam sighed. "I just…was…wondering."

"Ya got a hot date or something?" Dean replied snidely with the overused sarcastic retort.

"No, I just…just want to get out of here," Sam answered, hoping that Dean was ready.

"No, I'm not done. If you're that impatient, go wait in the truck. I'll be there when I'm good and ready."

Sam really wanted to throw a punch at his brother. Since he was feeling faint, he decided not to press the issue. Shaking his head in sheer disappointment, Sam shakily stood up and began making his way towards the exit, accidentally bumping into several tables along the way, receiving many angry scowls and comments. He made short pants, struggling to draw in long deep breaths as his vision began to waver and black dots begun a little dance.

Stumbling out the exit door, he greedily gulped at the brisk air as though his head was held under water for too long. Still the dizziness and pants for air had yet to subside. Clawing at the sidewall, his hand sliding against the rough textured brick wall to keep him stable, he staggered on through the back alley towards the back parking lot.

Halfway through the trash-cluttered way, his foot snagged on a cardboard box and he tripped, falling onto his hands and knees. At that point, he probably would have preferred the awkward dizziness, as fire-like stings and heart-thudding pains erupted all over him. His hands. His arms. His back. His chest. The blazing fury was back with a vengeance and he wanted to cry, scream out in agony, in confusion because he had no idea what was happening.

Instead, he sat up, crawled backwards, and rested his back against the hardened wall, curling his knees up to his chest, waiting on the current ordeal to pass. He panted hard, clenching his eyes tight, waiting, praying his brother won't see him like this. God only knows how Dean would react then. The cacophonous thud sounded in his ear…_thump thump_…_thump thump thump_…and it grew louder the longer he sat.

_Thump. Thump._

_Thump. Thump Thump. _

The pounding then was everywhere, to his head, to his arms, to his feet. His ankles stung terribly. He felt around them, learning that they were indeed hot to the touch and swollen.

_Thump. Th-thump. Thump._

He didn't like this one bit. Every instinct yelled, beat, and stomped their feet, wanting him to find his brother, at the very least pull out his cell and call him. But he didn't. Some other part of him didn't want to call Dean, not wanting to place any other burden on his shoulders. These weren't good times, he reminded himself. Favor for keeping Dean ignorant won out over all other instincts. He hated it, but his brother didn't deserve this, didn't need to worry about him when he had other more urgent things on his mind, not now of all times.

So Sam just sat there, breathing, concentrating on the sickening wave to pass, praying it will before his brother came looking.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Footfalls sounded, coming close. Sluggishly he looked up to see three taller-than-average Asian-mixed men all dressed in leather and chains, two of them with long raven hair tied up in a knot in the back of their heads, while the third was bald. Sam cringed at seeing the shiny chain dangling from baldy's nose to his ear. Fashion like that always intrigued him, wondering what was the purpose of it all.

Instantly his instincts now sang a different tune, a flux of bad vibes coming in one after the other. These men were strangely grinning, but Sam could sense a nefarious underlining to their crooked teeth. Sam said nothing as the three gangster looking men surrounded him. One knelt down by his side. His perfectly straight eyebrows knitted together.

"Ya alright there pal?" the guy asked, still grinning, fingering the many earrings off his left earlobe.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine," he answered rather shakily, which he hadn't meant to do in the least bit.

"Oh," the guy looked him up and down, squaring his shoulders. Clearly he had another initiative. "You drunk?"

Something had to be messing with his mind, because suddenly Sam couldn't stop himself. "I…I…ah…yeah, yeah I am."

Yeah, even he was horrified at saying that.

"Nice," the gangster commented, flashing that crooked smile. "Then this will go a lot smoother then," he nodded to his two compadres, who came forward and pulled Sam abruptly to his feet, slamming his back against the wall.

Before it finally registered that the cronies were patting down his jacket and jeans in what was an obvious mugging, Sam reacted instinctually. He threw out a heavy punch, plowing the balled fist straight into the bald one's face, knocking him back a few feet. The other Sam thrust in the bony edge of his knee into the thug's midriff, also pushing him away.

_Thump. Thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-th-thump. Thump._

The third, and apparently the leader of their little gangster clan, came forward raising a fist. Sam blocked it, ducking under, throwing another hammering punch straight up into the guy's jaw. The hit alone sent the leader up off his feet, rolling on the ground with a dazed and confused expression.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Th-th-thump. Thump._

Sam gasped for air feeling more sick and dizzy at the physical exertion. He blinked several times in an attempt to control his swirling vision. Rustling to the side brought his attention to the other two twerps now lunging at him with dangerous looks to kill.

Stifling a grimace, Sam went on the defensive. As the taller of the two reached him first, he spun forcing the guy's head into the wall, whirling around in time to block the bald one's swinging fist. Throwing out two quick boxer-like punches into the pudgy nose, the guy was down on the ground once more.

Still gasping, Sam stepped back and admired his handiwork for a split second. All three thugs were on the ground exemplifying what happened when you messed with one of John Winchester's sons, and for some odd reason he couldn't have been happier.

That was until the tight rubber band across his chest broke and the dull and throbbing ache now morphed into a fiery knife-like searing, stealing his breath away. Sam stumbled back, clutching at the wall to keep his balance, grasping a hold of his chest. He gritted his teeth. If anything it felt like that scary _Psycho_ lady was stabbing him in the heart with that kitchen knife. Actually he'd much rather have the _Psycho_ lady stab him, because then he would know what he was dealing with.

The searing throb grew in size and longevity and then he found himself on his knees, grimacing, mewling slightly. He tried to breathe through it, to concentrate on other things while the pain subsided, but it was no use. The fire spread, the trembling and the vulnerability increased, and he was at a loss of what to do.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. _

Moans and several curses alerted his attention back to the thugs.

Of course, now when he's at his worst, the freaktards wake up, and no doubt would have the time of their lives in beating the shit out of him.

And unfortunately for Sam, he wasn't wrong.

Once back on their feet, shaking their heads, the men found him not two feet away and their mouths once again donned on that crooked grin, the blood seeping from the teeth making them appear wickedly sadistic.

Sam closed his eyes, praying that he'll be knocked out before the worst of it. And that was the last thought that swam through his muddled mind as the dark pointy edge of a leather boot came hurling at his head.

**Uh oh! Sammy's in trouble! But at least he gave it his all, if only his little problem hadn't have gotten in the way. But that's okay! You'll see what happens to our three little thugs next time. And just FYI, I'm not stereotyping against Asians for being the bad guys. Gangsters come in all faces, right?**

**In the beginning, I know we all know what happened with the trio in the cabin with the YED. However, this was from Sam's POV and I do believe he hadn't a clue his father was able to overpower YED in those last few seconds. I could be wrong, but this was my take on it…so y'know, just to clarify a few passages. **


	5. Inside the Fire

**Hidy ho! How ya doing?**

**Here is the next installment. Title came from the rock band "Disturbed". Hope you enjoy! ;)**

**Chapter 4:**

**Inside the Fire**

Sweet _Lemony Snicket_, there goes that feeling again!

With four beers finished off, Dean sat at the restaurant's bar top ready for another pint. He had a bad feeling…again. It seemed like a daily basis, including when he woke up in the morning, when the twisting and the tearing began—and frankly he was quite sick of it. The quick consumption of alcohol hadn't taken care of the nasty feeling, but it most certainly was taking the edge off.

That annoying niggling sense, that stupid cramping in his gut, acting like an alarm beacon, constantly was fiddling with his innards. Typically the feeling would be like a switch, on and off, having with it an unpredictable nature—which proved useful in times of strife. But this time, it seemed like something was meddling with his psychological radar, as the damn thing wouldn't turn off. Throbbing. Festering. _Irritating._ The sense had yet to leave, and now it was making him slightly queasy.

It had been a while since Sam left. A small twinge of guilt took hold in shrugging off his brother's leave and subsequent indifference to the fact that Sam had been waiting. Dean was sure Sam was probably still sitting in the frigid truck, huffing and puffing, ranting up a storm at the discourtesy. But Dean couldn't find it in himself to really give a hoot's ass. He was still in mourning, Sam would understand.

Casually he glanced down at the sticky foam fizzing at the top of the new amber-filled glass. Swirling the contents around in mock fascination, he cringed when a stray thought came to him about how similar his life was to the cup. Either half-full, or half-empty, it wouldn't matter. The glass would soon be empty, left devoid, wanting to be filled with more of the same, to be given a purpose.

That was if he had bought another. That was if he wanted to carry on with a purpose in mind…

Against admitting his fears and depressive intuition was not an easy task to carry out. Most of the time, he relished in dismissing his feelings— rather shoving them into a small box and burying it away, locked with chains and all. Only now, it seemed, that the box was overfull, leaking at the edges, on the verge of exploding. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, sure. But it certainly beat being open, and a sobbing mess, calling up a therapist or someone who would most likely have him admitted into the nut house.

Yeah, that wasn't an option.

Not now, at least!

Perhaps it was a good thing Sam was still waiting. Dean found it harder by the minute to continue on plastering his game face. Each second, minute, day, week that had slipped by, the icy fingers of hopelessness and despair gripped him, digging into his skin, and no matter how hard he thrashed, the grip was impregnable. It could be that he was still suffering. It could also be that this was the first time in a long time he experienced a family death so close to heart, he had forgotten entirely on how to overcome the nitty gritty part in grieving.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

Something about Sam.

His father's message was plain and clear as daylight, and it was then his heart clenched. He hadn't wanted to think about it. It was near crippling remembering the man's blunt words, and the agonizing shock that came with them. A large part of him wanted to tell Sam, unload the burden…but John was adamant in that the message not be revealed to his brother. And it was killing him.

Thinking back to the kid, something else seemed to be off. He couldn't quite place it, but Sam wasn't exactly…_Sam_ lately. He wasn't being his usual inquisitive emo self, having gone real quiet and only giving short answers, rather than attempting to crack into Dean's own wondrous behavior. Obviously the sasquatch was probably keeping something from him, as he should. He was only keeping something from him as well. It only seemed fair to even out the odds. But that certainly didn't sanctify the nagging suspicion.

_Sam? What is going on with him? _

Funny enough, that annoying cramping amplified at that thought.

Dean was broken from his musings at the ringing chime from the door. He tore his eyes away from the deflating brew at the loud chorus of jeers from three apparent hooligans dressed in leather approaching the bar. His eyes literally rolled up into their sockets when the three began smacking each other's hands, emitting howls of triumph.

"We struck gold man!" the bald one of the three announced jovially.

"No way that douche had this amount of dough on him!"

"Fist Bang Pow! Down like that!" one with a busted lip and a ridiculous knot at the top of his head said.

The three Asians then took a seat each on the bars' wobbly stools smiling and squawking like buffoons. Dean caught from the corner of his eye the interesting fashion the gangsters were displaying, finding the one bald guy with chain hooked into his nose a bit odd. He shook his head. Fashion like that just didn't make sense. And often he found himself not bothering to question it, as it probably wouldn't have made a difference.

"I mean did you see him?" the second knot-head went on, "He went down quicker than Deidric did on your momma—"

"Hey," the bald guy scowled, swinging a balled fist at the man's shoulder. "Nobody talks about my momma. But I'm glad he was already down. What'd you do to him?"

"Nothing," the leader of the gang shrugged. "Sack of shit couldn't handle us, that's all."

Dean took another long draw from his beer, eagerly trying to tune out the obnoxious jests, not at all determined to be apart of the knot-heads _Joie de vivre_. And judging from the silence of the rest of the bar and the annoyed dirty looks, everyone else, including the bartender, were not in the mood either. Whatever they were carrying on about, it sounded like they all three had taken on a gorilla of a fighter and beat him down to a pulp.

Inwardly, he laughed thinking back to all the times he knocked out some crummy smuck off his ass in less than a few seconds. Good times!

"Yo barkeep!" the lead hooligan called. "Here's a fifty for the first round," he slapped down a folded dollar bill.

Seemingly indifferent, the bartender pulled out a few shot glasses and began filling them with JD. Obviously this wasn't the first time these guys had been in here.

Desperate to leave, Dean pulled back his head and finished his brew. Slamming down the glass with a piercing 'chink', he got up to leave…until a small beam of light caught his attention. Turning to the source, that's where he saw the light emanating off a silver money clip next to the leader's grubby blood-caked hand. He froze as recognition washed over him.

And that's when it struck him like a painful snakebite.

One glance at the engraved _S.W._ on the gleaming metal and Dean teleported, moving so fast, anyone would only suspect it was a windy draft flowing in from the entrance. That niggling feeling now understood, he bolted with Olympian sprinting speed, out the door, around the building, not bothering to stop until he practically skidded by Bobby's rusty old Chevy.

His heart felt like it jumped up his throat when the hum of the truck's engine was silent and the passenger seat was empty. Whirling around, Dean took off the way he came, trying like Hell to remain calm. It couldn't be Sam those punks were jabbering on about. No way would his little brother go down that easy.

However, his gut was singing soprano now…and that couldn't mean anything good.

Running around like a chicken with its head off did nothing. Calling out Sam's name was about as useless as a pole-less pony in a merry-go-round, because the kid wasn't answering. Panic was beginning to set in, and immediately Dean began to think the worst.

_Think like a thug. Think like a thug._

Unfortunately there wasn't anything else to do. In his frazzled mind, the only way he could think of to search for his brother, in case Sam was broken beyond relief, was to stoop down to the freaktards mental level. One route he wasn't thrilled in taking.

Coming around the corner and into the alleyway, he continued to call for his brother. Stumbling through the trash littered way, he peered strongly, scanning every inch of the darkened lot. If it had been he who had mugged a person, beat on them and left them hanging, then as a way of brushing the dirt under the rug, he'd have either put so and so in a dumpster, or covered them with trash.

And at times like this, he hated that he was right.

Shuffling closer to the one and only broad -sided dumpster, Dean looked closely at the mountains of trash and boxes set beside the chipped and rusty container. And there under several boxes and a frayed tarp was a tennis shoe.

More specifically, it was Sam's tennis shoe.

Had it not been the fact Dean's panic high-striker was ringing, he seriously contemplated murder, the tint over his vision flashing red. Rushing forward, he began to dig his brother out.

"Sammy? Sammy!" he called, the cardboard boxes flying high over his shoulders. The angry digging didn't relent until the freshly bruised and bleeding face of his sibling appeared. What felt like a baseball bat slamming into his ribcage, Dean gasped out of shock, and began to dig faster in removing the tons of leftover debris.

"Sammy?" he patted Sam's cheek, hoping to elicit a response. "Sam," he shook him, "Come on Dude."

Sam finally let out a small groan, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

"What the hell happened," he asked, but wasn't surprised a bit when the question went unanswered. Dean wiped away the trickles of red, carefully smoothing over the raw and purple spots around Sam's temples and mouth. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

With heroic muster, Dean pulled his brother to his feet, grabbing a hold of Sam's midriff tightly as the kid began to list forward. Sam leaned heavily onto his brother, his legs a stumbling mess.

"Come on Sammy. Almost there," Dean encouraged.

He didn't stop until they both were safely at the truck. Pulling open the door, Dean dumped Sam into the passenger seat, keeping him upright by the scruff of his jacket. He gritted his teeth enraged at seeing his brother so disoriented, reminding him of the day they rescued their father from the demons, and the YED son had attacked Sam and had beaten him to near death, ultimately forcing Dean to shoot the demon, killing its host. He didn't need that reminder. He was already crumbling from the guilt as it were.

Sam fell forward.

Concerned, Dean pushed him back against the seat and grabbed the sides of his face. "Sammy. Look at me. Look at me," he waited for the glossy eyes to turn his way. "Are you okay?"

Sam cringed. "I…I h-hurt," came the barely audible gasp.

"Okay. Okay, I hear ya," Dean told him, "I'm gonna getcha back to Bobby's and he's gonna patch ya up. All right?"

He didn't wait for Sam to give the okay. He looked back towards the restaurant and said, "Gimme a second. I gotta take care of some trash first."

Sam coughed. "M'kay," he concurred. Once Dean's hold on him broke, he fell over onto the seat and promptly passed out.

"Hang tight Sammy. I'll be right back." Dean said with a dangerous look.

Cracking his knuckles, the only weapon he would really need, he slowly made his way back. The restaurant was much the same as he had left it. The three targets were still at their respective spots, laughing up a storm, and the other occupants were casually carrying on with their meals.

Dean said nothing but nonchalantly strolled towards the bar with a carefree smile, softly picked up a four-legged chair, and swung it over the first knot-head he came to first. There was a deafening crack as the wooden structure exploded into shards, the force of the impact shoving the guy into the counter, and he fell off the stool in an unconscious heap. The rest of the place grew eerily silent, each onlooker staring with horrid fascination. Even the bartender stood back in alarm, anxiously watching, surprisingly not heading for the bat, or phoning the police.

The other two thugs overcame their temporary shock and jumped back from the bar, sneering heavily. The second knothead, the leader, then took out a small handknife. Dean raised an eyebrow, laughing it off.

"Really?"

The leader growled. "Who the hell do you think you are? Do you know who you're dealing with?"

"Yeah," Dean answered coolly. "A bunch of nose-ring dickheads who picked on the wrong guy. The cash you bummed off? That was my little brother's."

"What? Are you his bodyguard?"

Dean flashed a genuine smirk. "Damn straight."

"Well then…" knot-head smiled. He rushed forward slashing out the tiny blade.

And at times like this, Dean was happy to have been raised by the former Marine, John Winchester.

Twisting to the side, Dean grabbed the guy's yielding hand, snapped it back, and he gave a quick elbow hit to the face. Knothead stumbled back, clutching his nose, accidentally falling over one of the empty dinnertables. The bald guy then flew at Dean, obviously believing brawns were good enough to challenge him.

Rendering a good punch to the nose, Baldy went back, howling in pain. Dean saw this as his opportunity. Grasping the chain, he gave one good tug and Baldy froze for a solid few seconds before emitting out an agonizing screech, hopping up and down. Dean decided to help him out of his misery with two good knees to the gut and an undercut, silencing the man for good.

The leader, and the last, saw what happened to his buddy and charged forward letting out a war cry. Without even a twitch, Dean latched onto the man's shoulders, quickly brought him over to the bartop, and repeatedly slammed the man's head down. At the last headslam, knothead fell to the ground beside his compadres, out for the count.

Dean threw down the chain still in his hand at the bald guy, and pointedly said to the three, "Nobody…and I mean, nobody beats on my little brother."

Wiping his hands off on his jeans, he turned to leave, when a loud echoing applause began. Stunned, he glanced around in awe at the other customers, some giving him a standing ovation. Several others yelled out, "Yeah! About damn time!"

"What?" Dean was confused.

"Ahem," he heard from behind. Turning around, Dean was in for another surprise when the bartender, flipping back his ponytail, gave him a bar rag. "Here ya go sport. Clean yaself up there. We've been having trouble with these guys for a long time. But no matter what the county does, they're constantly stirring up trouble. Thanks for taking care of our problem. Have another beer, it's on the house."

"Uh. No thanks. I gotta get home," Dean replied, "but you're welcome."

He gave no more room for anyone to put in their congratulations. However it was nice to be thanked, he had to get Sammy home. And so he left out into the still night.

…

"Bobby!" A singular high-pitched beep sounded from the truck. "Bobby, I need your help."

Despite being late at night, the old man, dressed still in flannel, ran down his veranda's steps, eager to see what the trouble was. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Sam's hurt, that's what's going on," Dean replied vehemently, dragging his limp sibling from the passenger seat.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Dean gasped, growing red in the face. "He was mugged by a few losers outside the bar."

Bobby paused, raising an eyebrow. "A bunch of snotnose punks got the jump on Sam?"

"You gonna help me or not? He only weighs a ton, you know!" Bobby swiftly came over and slid under Sam's other arm. Together they carried him into the house and carefully laid him down on the couch.

"Here, I'll go get a cloth," Bobby offered, traipsing off towards the kitchen. He came back a few minutes later with a damp cloth and a bottle of whiskey, just as Dean took off Sam's jacket and shoes, and placed a blanket over the shivering shoulders.

"You mind telling me what happened again."

Dean shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't know. The only thing I can figure is they took him by surprise."

"Where were you?"

"I was inside at the bar. He left a little while earlier to go wait in the truck, and that's when it had to go down. Other than that I haven't the slightest clue. I can't figure it out either," he acknowledged Bobby's perplexed look, "Those guys weren't all that tough. I guess we'll know more by morning."

Bobby narrowed his gaze. "He doesn't look too good Dean. Should we get him checked?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, he'll be fine by morning. It's not like this is the first time he was beaten to a pulp."

"All right. You got him?" Bobby adjusted his grungy ball-cap.

"Yeah. I'll take care of him for the night."

"Okay."

**So…was the bad guys punishment worth the wait? This isn't my best chapter, and so if it seemed a little rushed, I apologize. I wanted to get this up real quick. Also a big thanks goes to Monkeymuse about the idea with the chain. It was a sweet move, I think, on Dean's part. Gear up for the next chapter as things go downhill real fast.**


	6. SOS

***Cringes sheepishly* Again sorry about the wait. But voila, here is the next chapter! **

**Reference time. Anyone up for a good limp Sam fic? You should totally check out **_**Leahelisabeth's**_** "Othello". Not only is it crazy in suspense and mystery, but also it'll rock your socks off for those who are torture and limp Sam fanatics such as me, and it is written extremely well. It is simply awesome!**

**Cheers!**

**Chapter 5: **

**S.O.S**

For sure, Sam knew he wasn't dead.

Death couldn't have hurt this much. And if it did…well, just add that to the list of things he'd rather avoid.

Due to the constant whispers and tinkering—oddly sounding like metal on china— he was pulled from his heavy slumber, opening his sensitive eyes to the dim morning glow. Grimacing at the stiff ache throbbing…well, all over, he shakily sat up, tensing only briefly, waiting for the piercing chest pain he felt the previous night to strike.

Surprisingly it hadn't.

The numbness was gone. The _thump thump_ pounding in his ears fell mute. He could even take a deep breath without a hitch. Though his entire body chorused with aches, it seemed the terrifying episode had abated.

Emitting a small groan, Sam slowly rose from the couch, sauntering into the kitchen towards the voices—no doubt it was Dean and Bobby in mid conversation about last night's skirmish—with a brewing headache in tow.

Dean looked up and immediately stood up from his chair at seeing his staggering brother enter the room. "Mornin' Oscar. Just in time for coffee. Sit," came the direct order, pulling out the chair.

Sam shrugged off the authoritative tone, understanding Dean knew about what happened last night and was a little ticked off by it. He said nothing, but sat down as ordered. His brother stared down at him like he was the bad cop in an interrogation. Sam knew that Dean was waiting on him to spill the beans, for which he was glad because there was something he wanted to tell him.

Sam took a hesitant breath. "Uh…Dean, I need to tell you something."

"Tell me about it," Dean answered gratingly. "What…" his phone rang. "Hold that thought," he said and left into the other room.

Sam huffed dejectedly, turning a deaf ear to his brother's loud voice "Oh good! I'm itching to get out for a bit. No problem…"

"Bobby," he groaned. "I'm gonna need that Tylenol."

"Already gotcha covered boy," Bobby came over from the stove, handing him a glass of water, a bottle of Tylenol, and an ice pack.

Sam eyed the pack intrigued. "What's this for?"

"For the shiner you got going," his mentor replied with a cheap grin.

"Oh."

"What exactly happened last night Sam?"

God only knew that question was inevitable. Mixed feelings suddenly rose and Sam wondered if he really should tell the truth. He was prepared to tell Dean, motherhen of the century and risk his own independency for a while, but now he wasn't so sure. So he settled with, "Uh I…I just…just wasn't feeling my best and well, and uh, you can pretty much guess what happened after that."

"Ah," Bobby nodded. "Yeah your brother told me he found you in an alleyway under a mountain of trash. He brought you back to the truck…and uh, yeah you can pretty much guess what happened after that," he added, reusing Sam's words to convey the message.

Sam snorted, gingerly placing the pack over his left eye. "It doesn't surprise me."

A few minutes later, Dean strolled back into the kitchen as Sam tepidly sipped his coffee. "All right, that was Gary. He said there's a possible haunting about two hours from here. I told him we'd look into it. You game?" he asked Sam.

Sam peered at him positively dumbstruck. "You kidding me. Another hunt already?"

"You don't have to go if you don't want to. S'gonna leave in about an hour. Just get it done and over with."

"Uh, sure," Sam shrugged, not entirely sure of what to think. He was feeling fine right now. However weary he was of another attack, all things considered, he figured there was no point in getting worked over something that happened last night. For all he knew, he might have had a bad case of heartburn and overreacted. That seemed like the logical choice.

"Goody," Dean piped. "Now what was it that you needed to tell me?"

"Eh, it was nothing. Just…wanted…to, you know? Say thanks," Sam answered.

"Oh, okay. Bobby you want to come with us?"

"No I'm good. Got a lot of work to do around the yard. You be careful!" the old man said, pouring the rest of the coffee into his own mug, aware of the youngest Winchester surreptitiously taking the Tylenol bottle.

…

Several hours later, Sam felt ready to puke. As the day progressed, he began to feel incredibly hot and heavy, saturated with sweat, and real nauseous. At first, he thought possibly it was the result of what he had ate, but that thought instantly died when he realized he hadn't eaten anything that morning.

Sheer terror rippled through this spine, terrified in that he may experience another attack like before. Never in his life had he felt this bad…not even at Stanford. It could be the stifling heat inside the car or the humidity flourishing outside. It was near impossible to try and guess why he was so hot. At that point, all he really wanted to do was take a dunk into the Artic.

After having reconnoitered the supposed _haunted house_, it was learned it was a bust. There were no ESP signals, no cold spots, nor any other odd supernatural element indicating it was a ghost sighting. Either Dean's contact screwed up in listening to the embellished accounts of ignorant teenagers or was being lazy in not willing to dig into the research. Either way, the boys took a trip out for nothing.

Feeling the need to stay another day, Dean went ahead and booked a room. Dropping Sam off, he then went out to collect lunch. Just the mere thought of food had Sam launching into the musty cheap bathroom, riddled with dry heaves.

Achy. His skin smoldering to the touch. Practically feeling faint. Sam knew he had to call a clinic. Something was seriously wrong and he would have been an idiot if he hadn't talked to someone.

Finding a local clinic's number, Sam pressed in the digits like it was an emergency. The phone only rang twice before a feminine New Yorker voice answered.

"Thank you for calling Swenson Clinic. This is Tammy, how may I help you?"

Instantly an image of a woman in a pink fluffy bathrobe and large curlers, casually examining long jungle-red nails popped into his mind. Sam shook his head, "Uh…hi. I, uh, need to make an appointment."

"Whatsur name? And have you've been to this clinic before?"

"My name? Uh it's Sam's Winc…Winston. Sam Winston," he bit his lip at the near slip. "And no, I'm just passing through town."

"Alrighty Sam. Whatsit about?" the receptionist asked curtly, slightly taking him by surprise.

"Um, you mean, like, what are my symptoms?"

"Yes honey. How are you feeling?"

"Um," he began in a shaky voice, "I've uh…I've been real tired lately…"

"Tired, uh huh…like after a long day tired, or fatigued tired?" Tammy asked.

"Fatigued tired."

"Uh huh, and what else?"

"Also, I've had this fever, on and off—been like that for months now."

"Fever? Anything else?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I get this real sharp pain in my chest. Haven't really been noticing it, until last night. Last night was really bad. And now it…uh, it just hurts all the time."

"Okay," Tammy replied. Familiar clicking on computer keys sounded in the background. Sam waited patiently for the receptionist. He really needed to see someone soon.

"Alright…let's see…let's see," she drawled out, "Oh. It looks like Dr. Sorenson can see you on Wednesday in the afternoon."

"Wednesday! But that's three days away! Are you serious?" He didn't mean to bluster at the clerk, but it was all too surprising for him.

"I'm sorry hun, but this is a very small clinic. That's the earliest the doctor can see you. If you feel like this is an emergency, there is a ER about thirty miles from here."

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blow up. Uh, don't worry about it. I'll just wait til I get home. Thank you for your time."

"Sure thing honey," She hung up.

Sam closed his eyes, suddenly feeling like he packed on a hundred pounds. With the new dilemma at hand, he would have to make sure he went to the clinic back in South Dakota. Bobby would see to it he'd see his trusted physician. He hoped he would be able to keep his game face on and still hide this from his brother. Who knew how Dean would react if he couldn't?

…

Four hours later, Sam couldn't stop shaking. Dean had yet to show, and Sam was beginning to get a little worried about him. After the several apologetic texts alerting him he was scooping out another possible lead to another haunting, Sam knew the translation was Dean had found a bar and some company. He didn't fret too much about it though. He had his own problems to worry about.

It was for two of those hours that Sam found himself wrapped around the porcelain goddess giving tribute. Whenever he was sure he was done, another bout would quickly resurface. However happy that Dean was off in hot-chick territory, a small part of him wanted his brother to return and help him. The bottle of Tylenol did nothing to ease the crappiness. Already he couldn't wait to go home.

Having taken at least three hot showers, nothing would take care of the shakes. The thudding was back in his ears. The rapidly sharp-shooting pains were setting off like fireworks, and approximately half of his left side went numb. Tears beaded at the brim of his lids, realizing what he had to do. There was no bullshitting out of this one.

He had to tell his brother.

The flash of the truck's lights flooded the interior of the room and the loud roar of the engine hummed. Sam instantly felt a tingle of relief. He sat on the side of the bed, head in his hands, strenuously working to stabilize his quivering. The door opened and he paused, clenching his eyes shut. _Here we go!_

"Sorry Sammy…but there was definitely something going on. I took care of it, so no problems. I know you said you weren't hungry before, but I brought you back something anyway," Dean said aloud, dropping a bag of grease on a nearby table.

At the silent greeting, Dean looked over at his brother. "You okay?"

Still there was no answer.

"Sam? What's up?" He saw the sweat and the shake in the guy's shoulders. He stepped closer and froze. Sam was crying. Actually crying! "Sammy, what is it?"

Sam finally looked up, the fear and confusion clearly emanating from his mossy green eyes. "Dean I don't feel so good," his breathing quickened.

The alarms bells began to screech. Dean rushed over to Sam's side and crouched down to his level. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know…it's…just something's not right," he nearly sobbed, "I tried to make an appointment. I tried everything, but I d-don't know. Something isn't right."

"Okay, okay. Just relax and lay down," Dean encouraged gently pushing against Sam's chest and guiding him down on the bedspread. A lump formed in his throat at seeing the pale pallor of his brother's skin, the tiny globs of perspiration over his upper lip, and the ragged gasps. Sam was as stubborn as Hell. He would be gushing blood, about to keel over from blood loss before he'd admit he needed help. So this was a surprise—and a nasty one at that. He swallowed it down to the best of his ability.

Sam lethargically tried to lift his legs onto the bed. Dean saw his struggle and it was the innate duty that had him willingly grab and push them under the covers. Sam's breath continued to come in long drawn inhales.

"Just hang tight there dude," he pressed his palm to Sam's forehead, "Feels like you're running a small fever. Give me a sec and I'll bring you back something."

Sam didn't answer as he fought hard to quell the persistent quivers his body exhibited. Something was wrong. He could feel it and it scared him down to his core, more so than any other fear he has perceived. This feeling of dread, feeling of weightlessness, loss of control…none of these he felt the last time he was ill. This has to be something else, something else causing this sense of paranoia, something worse than any other pernicious bug.

Dean came back a few minutes later with a glass of water, a rung out rag draped over his arm, and a palm of three Tylenol tablets.

"Here you go buddy. Take these for the fever," he handed them out, which Sam accepted with a shaky hand.

"So I guess this means you're sick, huh? I knew something was going on with you."

Sam refused to answer as he threw all three tablets into his mouth simultaneously and took the glass of water, slurping down its contents greedily.

"Whoa easy there tough guy," Dean reprimanded taking the glass, "No need to get _more_ sick."

Sam shook off the need to criticize his brother for the improper use of grammar. Instead he closed his eyes in appreciation when Dean started wiping off his sweat with the cloth as he found he had no energy to complete the task himself.

"S-sorry Dean," he said softly.

"What for?"

"For p-putt…ing you t-through this," he answered in between breaths.

"It's no problem Sasquatch," Dean shrugged, "Besides it's not like you can do it at the moment, and I don't want you stinking up the place. So there!"

His last comment forced a snort on Sam's part thus causing a nasty stitch to sprout in his side. He gasped loudly reactively curling in on his side.

"Whoa there! Take it easy Sammy. Take a deep breath and try to go to sleep. Can you do that for me?"

Tentatively, Sam nodded his head, scrunching his eyes shut. The raging fear that something dark and nasty beginning to take over him was still existent, with no hope of dissipating anytime soon.

"Go to sleep Sammy. Just relax and you'll feel much better in the morning," he heard his brother say to him. He smiled a bit closing his eyes. The sound of his brother's voice at that moment, so caring, so…shall he say it, fatherly, helped nullify the fear a bit. His body continued to fight off the nerve-wracking tremors, but the distracting humming Dean made on the other bed reading his car mag soon lulled him into an uneasy sleep.

…

The moment the flare of sunlight filtered into the room, Dean woke. Grumbling to himself about forgetting to close the curtains that night, he rolled over aiming to get a few more 'Z's'. However, the sun rose higher, basking the room in a wave of heat. As his bed was in the main target zone, it became sweltering hot beneath the scratchy covers. When enough was enough and he could've sworn he sweated off a few pounds, Dean decided to get up.

Stretching out to his fullest figure, hearing several cracks along the way, he yawned long and loud. Stifling another yawn, he peered at his watch and read 6:08 a.m. His lip curled in disappointment. _Stupid sun, Ya could've at least waited another hour. Grrr…_

Taking a glimpse at his sibling, he called out, "Rise and Shine Sammy. Need to take your medicine before we hit the road."

His brother didn't stir. He looked more like he was dead, sprawled out with his hand hanging over the side.

"Hymph." Dean huffed waltzing over the clearing. Placing a hand on the bang-covered forehead, he frowned concluding that the fever was still present. Gracious enough to allow Sam to get a bit more shuteye before he woke him to take another dose of medicine, he lumbered off to the shower. Making sure all the hot water was properly used, he came out in a cloud of steam, jerking at the frigid air meeting his heated skin.

After getting fully dressed, his insides squirmed for some runny eggs, greasy sausages, and for some odd reason, hash-browns. He was ready to go, but…had to wake a little brother up first.

"Sammy? Come on, it's time to wake up."

Sam remained silent lying on his stomach.

"Sam. Wakey wakey! Now," he nudged the bottom of Sam's foot with the sole of his boot. When Sam still hadn't responded, Dean's exasperation kicked in. "I'm not kidding. Time to get up," he patted his back.

The first thing he noticed was how rigid Sam's back felt. The next was the deathly pallor and the flaccidity of Sam's hand. It flopped like it was made of rubber. "Sam?" he shook his shoulders violently. "Sammy?"

Panic had finally run home. Not knowing what else to think, Dean screamed, "Oh my God!"

**TBC**


	7. City of Evil

**Yup, here's the next part. Warning it might be a tad intense. Heads up, there is a passage in here that might give some Wincest fans something to talk about…please no references or snarky remarks. It wasn't intended, I swear! Again, no medical expert here…so I advise to take this chapter with a grain of salt. Title from **_**Avenged Sevenfold**_**. Enjoy! **

**Chapter 6:**

**City of Evil**

"Wake up, Sammy. Wake up, dammit. Wake. Up!"

All attempts to rouse his brother were proved futile. Alarmed, Dean reached for Sam's nose, barely feeling the air rush out. Secondly, he reached for his neck searching for a pulse, breathing a sign of relief when he found one. But that relief only lasted a brief second as the pulse was weak, thrumming un-rhythmically beneath his fingers.

"Oh my God," he gasped happily, immediately fishing out his cell from his inner jeans pocket, and punching in three digits.

"911 Emergency?" a female operator's voice sounded.

"Help! Help, my brother. He's…he's barely breathing," Dean rushed, the flood of panic swelling up inside his head.

"Alright, first sir, I need you to calm down, okay?"

"Calm! What do you mean calm down? My brother's not breathing! How the hell can I calm down?" he blustered frantically.

"Sir I need you to listen to me. Just listen…" the operator proclaimed.

Dean exhaled angrily, the phone shaking hard in his hand.

"Okay," she said again cautiously. "What is your name?"

"Dean," he grunted.

"Alright Dean, what's your brother's name?"

"S-sam. His n-name is Sam," his voice now began to quiver.

"Sam?" he heard clicking on a keyboard in the background, "Okay Dean, can you state your current location, please?"

"Uh…shit…uh, the motel…Pineview over on Weston. R-room…uh ten," he stammered.

"Okay, a unit is on the way sir. They can be there in twenty minutes. Tell me about Sam. What is his condition? What is he like right now?" the operator asked.

Dean overlooked his brother a final time. "He's barely breathing. He's pale, uh, has a fever…well, I…I think he does. He was complaining of not feeling good last night."

"Alright. Has your brother said anything to you? Is he conscious?"

"No, no he's not. He was asleep and hasn't woken up yet. Oh-oh God, his lips are turning blue…please hurry," the phone trembled more violently in his ear.

"Dean, stay calm. What position is Sam lying in right now? Is he on his back? His stomach?"

"He…He's on his stomach," Dean croaked.

"Okay, again listen to me. You must do as I say. Try to turn him over onto his back and tilt his chin up. It'll help with allowing passage of air to flow."

The panic had not waned, but the advice from the operator was slightly calming him down. Placing the phone to the side, he heaved his half-ton of a brother up and over. "Okay," he said to himself, tilting Sam's head back. Picking up the phone, he said into the receiver, "Alright, he's up and over. What now?"

"Check his breathing again. Has it slowed down or sped up?"

Dean did so, putting his index finger under Sam's nostril. "No. No. It's still the same."

"Don't panic. Now, you might have to give him mouth-to-mouth. Do you know how to do that?"

Dean paled. He really didn't want it to come down to that. But if it meant Sammy's livelihood—suck it up and swallow the pride. "Yeah. Okay, okay. I'm putting the phone down, don't hang up."

"I won't Dean."

"Okay," Dean said to himself, "one breath, and eighteen compressions." Immediately he went to work, pushing in on his brother's chest, closing his mouth onto Sam's and puffing in a long and hard breath. "Come on Sammy," he set about the compressions again.

Approximately twenty minutes later, Dean felt dizzy. Sam's lips had darkened to another shade of blue, his skin almost whiter than a blanket of winter snow. He made no movement, nor any sign of waking as Dean frantically went about CPR.

"Dammit Sammy, come on," Dean breathed into his brother's mouth again, "Don't you dare give up on me you son of a bitch. Don't you dare!" Breathless and exhausted, he was about to speak with the operator once more, when suddenly the sound of sirens echoed.

"Oh thank God!" Relief coursed through him when the professionals arrived. Picking up the phone again, he said to the operator, "the ambulance is here now," before clasping it shut.

A booming knock followed a second later. Dean raced to the door, unlocking it fast, leading the paramedics in.

At that point, time seemed to have slowed, like some demented time warp. Dean didn't know what to do, or what to think as two uniformed men ran in and began shouting off foreign directions to one another as they assessed his limp brother. He slid to the ground, having lost the feeling in his legs, witnessing the EMTs drag Sam off the bed, firmly planting him on the floor whilst ripping open his tee and attaching sensors to his chest.

There were more shouts and issued orders from the medics. They sat back as Sam's body shuddered several times at the shock of electrodes from the battery-operated defibrillator. _Thank God for Duracell._

Dean sat transfixed; watching the scene unfold in utter disillusionment, half hoping this was all a dream, a prank, maybe. However, the mother of a bitch reality struck him hard in the face and the next thing he knew Sam was rolling away on a large gurney with an Ambu bag attached to his too still face.

Apprehension pounded into him with a giant sledgehammer, broadening the confusion of the situation, and he wasn't entirely sure how to handle it. He wasn't sure if he was up for the drive to the hospital, though that wouldn't have mattered. His legs were in motion before his brain had issued out a direct order, practically jumping into the truck's driver seat. A little shaken up, clamping his trembling fist tight around the wheel, he quickly ignited the engine, and followed behind the speeding ambulance—the need to be with his family the main force behind his lead foot.

…

Not apt to pace and appear like a desperate father in anticipation of the foreboding events to come, Dean had settled in a chair, staring absentmindedly at a large laminated poster. The black and white picture of a woman holding a child carrying a bushel of daffodils advertising about healthcare was beginning to make him queasy. Anyone would have guessed their happiness was a fake. It was a shame it was all too obvious, and it wasn't something he needed right now.

He hadn't known how long he had been sitting there, molding into the chair. The only thing he was aware of was the constant whispers and beleaguered powwows of other patients and their family members. Not once in the long hours since he had been there in the ER waiting room had a nurse, doctor, orderly, or Hell, even a janitor spoken to him. Not able to think in a straight line, he had nothing left to do but stare at the poster, praying to become lost in his own little world.

Dean didn't quite have a full grasp on…well, anything. The events in the motel room still confounded him, almost to the brink of tears and a sudden need to find a manual, instructing him on how to get through the next part (though he wouldn't totally dismiss that idea). It all had happened so fast, his mind continued to spin from the shock of it. No way had he foreseen being in the hospital so soon again, waiting on news for his brother, who now seemed to be under the axe. The death of his father was still very fresh, the unbearable pain yet to heal.

A couple of young girls fiddling with plastic ponies in a corner squealed with mischief. They clopped their hands and ninnied, the two of them galloping on their hands and knees in small circles, pretending to be a cavalry of horses rounding up the plastic toys. If Dean weren't in such a taut mood, he'd have smirked at their fun. Instead, he cringed inwardly, the playful noises grating against his ears.

At that point, he would've given his right arm to get out of that place. It was too crowded, too noisy, and too overwhelming. But it wasn't like there was any other place to go.

Time, essentially, was a heavy top coating of snow, sliding fast down a mountainous gully. Several hours it had seemed he was in this room, left to his culpable, in danger of imploding, thoughts. And the only two things he doted on were there were still no news, and still no Bobby.

Frantic and in need of fatherly mentorship, Dean placed in a call to Bobby the minute he arrived at the ER, having only reached his messaging machine. Not long after, the old man had called back in a fretful state, wondering what in the _Sam Hell_ was going on. Once Dean relayed all that he knew, the man instantly cried _I'm coming _and hung up.

Dean had called several times afterward, hoping to be in reach, but was thwarted when the mechanical voice claimed 'out of area'. _What a bunch of crock_, he fumed.

He tried again…and again…and again.

And once again the God of Cellular Connection had failed to grant him his wish.

"I'm gonna freaking kill that Verizon guy," he seethed, clasping his phone shut for the umpteenth time.

Confused, angry, and over all frustrated Dean was about to go for a drive, before he made a hole in the wall, when the wonderful sound of panting reached his ears. His instincts tingling excitably for the newcomer, he wasn't disappointed when Bobby's large and flannel-clad frame hurried through the door.

The baby blue eyes instantly shot to him and Dean nearly fell into a puddle on the floor. No doubt he appeared like a lost child, red faced and puffy eyed, seeking the comfort and solace the man—he only knew as his surrogate father— could provide.

Bobby, as though reading his mind, came over and pulled him into a tight embrace. "You're okay now. You're okay. I'm here."

"T-thanks B-bobby," he stuttered, pulling away. "I'm sorry to bother you—"

"Nonsense boy. I'm glad you told me," Bobby answered gruffly. "Sorry it took me so long to get here. Got into a nasty storm on the outskirts of Toano, tornado from the looks of it. Interstate was shut down for a good few, but I got here as fast as I could."

Dean nodded. "That's fine. I didn't think I could do this alone, not now of all times."

"That's understandable. Now how's Sam? What have they said?" At the pouting lips and solemn headshake, the ball-cap wearer exclaimed, "They haven't…they haven't seen you yet? God, no wonder you're about to explode!"

Dean then grabbed his head, rubbing away the raw emotion and exhaustion. "You got it! And it's driving me nuts. Bobby, I don't know what happened. He just…he just wouldn't wake up," he pulled at his hair, "I mean, I knew he said he wasn't feeling good last night, but I never expected this. He's scaring the shit out of me!"

"Okay, okay. Calm down. Calm down," Bobby patted his shoulder. "Since it's been this long, I'm sure no one has been able to say something until they know what they're dealing with."

"But…he could be dead for all we know!"

"Don't think that Dean. Pull yourself together," his mentor coached sternly, his gaze softening a bit, "Besides if that was the case, don't you think they would have said something to you by now?"

"I don't know—"

"Yeah, they would. So that's something. At least we know he's not dead."

Dean scrunched his face, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. At least we know he's not dead," he took another breather, ready to take a seat.

But before any of the two men had reached a second step, a middle-aged red-haired doctor stepped into the small waiting room, holding out a large fully stacked vanilla folder. Weirdly, he reminded Dean of the _Addam's Family_ butler "Lurch" in that he had a sharp build, tall, with a stature that often suggested he was athletically strong. But his eyes were the darkest color of burnished hazel Dean had ever seen in a man, and admittedly it creeped him out.

"Family of Sam Winchester?" the man called in a deep, sensual tone.

"Right here," Dean leapt forward about two feet, taking Bobby's elbow. "I'm his brother and this is his Uncle."

"Good. Gentlemen, follow me," the guy announced rather bluntly, giving the two men an ominous feeling that nearly had Dean shaking like a salsa dancer. He followed immediately, appearing like a man heading towards the gallows.

Bobby leaned Dean's way, and said in a hushed whisper, "You gave them your real name?"

"Yea," Dean mewled sheepishly, "What? I panicked."

They were led down a long, blinding white hallway with bustling nurses and doctors heading into their patient's rooms. Often they had to overstep a few discarded boxes and file around several IV stands gathered in the hallway before they came to a door. The doctor took out his keys and that was when Dean noticed his sign to the right of the doorframe:_ Dr. Gary Bresley, M.D., Cardiac Surgeon. _

The taller-than-average doctor entered and motioned for them to take a seat in the two chairs in front of his neat, orderly desk. He closed the door and walked briskly around his workspace, settling in an oversized cushioned chair. He clasped his hands tightly, leaning towards them with a forlorn expression.

Rather a bit unsure as how to respond, Dean promptly blurted, "How is Sam? And no long drawn out answer either doc. I'm in no mood for cryptic messages."

"Fair enough," Doctor Bresley answered, "He's stable, for now. The paramedics informed me he was in cardiac arrest when they had arrived, but luckily they were able to diffuse the problem with the on-hand defibrillator."

"I saw," Dean whispered inaudibly, panic-stricken.

The doc's bright hazel's flashed. "But currently he is awake. A bit lucid, but that'll clear up the longer he stays conscious."

"Oh Christ," Dean exclaimed, yanking at the short hairs on top of his head again, "That's good to hear. He scared the crap out of me."

"But unfortunately he hasn't been able to answer any of our questions yet. Therefore I need to know Dean, how long have you known about your brother's heart condition?"

The doc had cut to the chase, and it completely took Dean by the balls. "What? Heart condition? What are you talking about?"

"So you have no awareness, whatsoever?"

Dean looked between the doc and Bobby, who shrugged in ignorance. "No, I don't have any awareness. What the hell is going on? What kind of heart condition?"

Dr. Bresley sighed. "Your brother went to Stanford, correct?"

"Yeah, but he had to drop out because of a…a…" he couldn't finish the statement. Instead he waved, hoping the man opposite from him caught on.

Bresley did. "Alright. Well, first off, the reason I've taken so long in speaking with you is that I wanted to be at least ninety percent positive of what we're dealing with, and so far, your brother's prognosis is not good."

"Don't tell me that doc. How bad is it?"

He waited anxiously for an outright answer, but it looked as though the doc had an agenda of his own. "Does a Doctor Belemont mean anything to you?"

"Who?"

"Belemont."

"Never heard of the guy."

Bresley tapped his fingers on the folder. "Alright, well he's a cardiac specialist over in Palo Alto. I just recently finished speaking with him and he just faxed me over these"—he held up the vanilla folder—"Apparently your brother's condition has been on-going…and from the looks of things, without treatment."

"On-going?" Dean cried, having taken another sledgehammer hit of confusion. "But what is it? What's wrong with him?"

Bresley cleared his throat. "According to our extensive test results, Sam had contracted DCM, or Dilated Cardiomyopathy, and has had it for quite some time. It's a disease of the heart muscle that further prevents blood to be pumped to the rest of the body. Most of the time, its idiopathic or rather there is no known cause for it. Several factors can lead to it such as genetic causes, viral infection, or consumption of toxins like lead and alcohol. But in Sam's case, it seems that a virus he contracted earlier caused it. And unfortunately it is also one of the main causes for Congestive Heart Failure."

The bottom of Dean's stomach dropped. "So you're saying Sammy is having heart failure?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. According to the test results Dr. Belemont has faxed to me, he came down with the B19 parovirus a month or so before he dropped out of school, and that caused the damage to his heart. Without treatment, the damage became extensive permanently."

Dean suddenly became aware of the increase in his breathing. His blood was beginning to boil about the news from Stanford, and all angry feeling was directed towards one little brother. "I can't believe this. All this time and he hasn't said a damn thing to me. I'm gonna beat his little…"

"That's because I'm sure he didn't know Dean," the doc interrupted.

Dean shut his trap and peered at him inquisitively.

"When I spoke to Doctor Belemont, he also informed me that he had tried to contact Sam in telling him of the matter. He said he sent several letters, called on several occasions, but to no avail, had been unsuccessful. According to Sam's record, there was a fire?"

At that, Dean nodded despondently. "Yeah, there was. It took out most of his apartment, and it killed his girlfriend. No one would have been able to get in touch with him. I took him out of there immediately after."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It does explain the current situation to an extent."

"But he must've had symptoms or some sort of sign or something. He could've told me then."

"Dean I'm sorry, but I must stress the point that Sam is not to blame here. Yes there are various symptoms, but most of the time a person with this type of condition is unaware of them until it's too late. Other times, they completely dismiss them as regular signs of the flu. Fatigue, aches, sometimes nausea…"

Dean huffed tiredly. "Okay, okay. I get it. I'm just…I'm just in shock, is all."

"That's alright. This is a troubling time, I understand."

"Doc, the damage you say that is already been done to Sam's heart. Can it be repaired?" asked Bobby.

Bresley sighed, slumping further into his chair. "Unfortunately, no."

Nodding, a little shaky, Bobby then asked, "Does he need a transplant?"

"We're not sure yet."

Dean scoffed, eying the man murderously. "You're not sure yet. Seriously! You can't just lay on us a nuclear bomb like that without the added benefit of dismantling it! Does he or does he not need one?"

To his surprise, the man looked unperturbed by his loud outburst, which further unsettled him. Bresley looked him square in the eye. "Again I'm sorry Dean, but at this time, it is uncertain. It all depends on the severity of the damage done. If we have caught it in time, which we hope that we have, then there is a probable sixty percent chance he may not need one. He'll have health related issues for the rest of his life, but he won't have to undergo the wait for a donor."

"So he won't have to."

"We don't know yet; that all depends on Sam. For the time being, we'll keep him here for observation. If he appears to be showing progress without any complication, we'll let him go home. But it's important he makes consistent visitation to a medical facility to be sure that the problem won't escalate."

Dean grimaced. Images of the yellow-eyed demon showing up on their doorstep ran through his thoughts. He gulped. "And what if it does escalate?"

"Then he'll have no choice but to be admitted, and put on standby for an available heart. We're hoping it won't lead to that, but we'll know more with time," the man informed softly, "Later once it's been determined if Sam can go home, I'll give you both a list of medications, that is imperative he takes on a daily basis, and activities he may do that might help. I'm sorry it has come down to this, but we're trying to do all we can."

"That's fine. Can we go see him now?" Dean asked, unsure of what to feel at the present time. More than anything he really wanted to see his little brother. "If he's been awake for some time, then I'm sure he's already wound up like a freaking Cupie Doll, ready to spill the avalanche of questions."

"Sounds like a challenge," Bresley smiled, standing up. "Well gentlemen, we may go see Sam now. I'm hoping he'll be coherent enough for further questioning. If so, then the quicker we get that part accomplished, the sooner I can leave you three to yourselves."

"Thanks doc. Lead the way," Dean held out a hand, his other kept surreptitiously behind his back, twisting into a tight fist.

**Uh-oh, Dean's not a happy camper. And needless to say he's on the verge of exploding. But no worries, big brother will be back before you know it.**

**Oh yeah, and did I mention this will be a long story. Not too long, but definitely ranging around fifteen or so chapters. Don't worry, we'll be at the beginning before you know it. Thanks so much for reading.**


	8. The Great Disappointment

**Hi! I am so sorry this is late, but I'm trying guys. I really am trying to post more frequently. Hopefully I'll do better next time. So I hope you guys are still around. I'm a bit nervous about this one, but I do hope it's to your liking. Title from **_**AFI**_**. **

**Chapter 7:**

**The Great Disappointment**

The trip to the designated hospital room felt like the journey on _Willy Wonka's_ chocolate riverboat…long and dizzying.

Dean incessantly growled in his head. The trek seemed to be taking forever. If he hadn't known better, he'd say they were on a windy road to eternity rather than the ICU ward. Patience obviously had been a virtue he skipped out on in his upbringing.

He stayed hot on Lurch's heels, his head whipping painfully at every door; the adrenaline pumping vigorously through his veins leaving him prepared to pounce. Feelings of catastrophic proportion raged on the inside, the anxiety accumulating, and the turmoil in his gut churning. With his core like molten lead, any minute now he was going to pop like a monstrous zit.

He was so laden with anticipation; just the look of his brother, and he was sure to explode. He didn't know why he was angry, but it was undeniable. He wanted to choke the living daylights out of the kid for putting him through this much stress. Ah Hell, he just wanted to scream, beat on his chest like King Kong, create a ruckus, break apart the elastic band that tethered all his rampant emotions together; anything to escape the rapid descent into the quicksand of Fear.

The continuing trip, however, did nothing to appease his agitation. On and on it went. The threesome meandered through hallways, turning onto many lefts and rights, and up a couple flights of stairs due to the only elevator malfunctioning.

What was this place? The Minoan Labyrinth? Feeling a little awkward at that thought, Dean tensed up as though waiting for the legendary Minotaur to attack.

It didn't help when they came upon an open window and Dean saw the vicinity…or actually vicinities. The sheer size of it could've compared of that with one of Busch's theme parks. The hospital looked to be made up of a standard structure: five stories up with two separate buildings connected by two jade-green window-paned bridges. The outside was airy, homely with a garden or two for in-patients and family, along with an intricate wooden gazebo and a fountain replica of _Michealangelo's Madonna and Child_.

Dean became puzzled. _Just where exactly were they?_

"This hospital is the only one for several counties, possibly the biggest in the state," Bresley informed him, as though he read his mind. "And yeah, we have a ways to go. This place is made up of two parts. The first part is where all the action is, the ER, the special fields like Mammography, Cardio, and pretty much anything else medically related. The second part is what we call the _patient headquarters_. It basically is the recovery unit. Each floor has specialized wards for each case."

"Oh," Dean could only think to say. There was too much already skimming through his head to really give a hog's swallow about the logistics of an edifice.

They began to cross one of the glass bridges.

"So where's Sam?"

"We have Sam stationed at the end of the fourth floor," Bresley shrugged before sending a flippant smirk, "ICU pretty much takes up both the fourth and fifth floors. Here in the middle of nowhere, you can bet we get a lot of emergency cases, mostly teenagers unfortunately."

"Yeah, I hear ya," Dean mumbled, looking away uninterested.

Eventually they came to the end of the hallway, Bresley pausing briefly before entering…which was so typical, Dean couldn't stand it. "It's alright, I get it. We get it," he interrupted rudely. "We know the drill, prepare yourself, he might come as a shock. We get it."

"Dean," Bobby warned, sending him a punishing glare. Dean's sudden rudeness wasn't appreciated.

"Actually, I was going to say "here we are," Bresley countered with a cocky grin, turning the knob and going right on in.

Dean rolled his eyes stepping behind the man. But before he could cross the threshold, Bobby pulled him back with one of his plate-sized hands. The usually self-assured hunter looked his mentor in the eye baffled at the abrupt holdback.

"Would you knock it off? You're acting like a complete ass, and I've had about enough of the attitude," he cleared his throat, a fierce guttural growl subtly sneaking in to emphasize the point. "I know you're hurting and scared. We all are. But please, try to be a little decent. If not to the doc, then try for your brother. He's gonna need ya more than ever."

Bobby gaped at the frazzled sibling with those erudite marbled blues, obviously pleading with him to stand down, set free the angry flock, deep down understanding the tension that was stewing. Dean, however, blatantly ignored him. Instead he wrenched his arm out of the strong grip and headed straight on in.

Sam was as expected: pale, still, and face turned away. His wild and lustrous hair was pulled back giving way to the plastic tube circling his face. Despite the many wires protruding out of the diamond-checkered hospital gown and the strained panting, he seemed pleasantly well.

Bresley hovered over him like a condor swooping in for its prey, reading his watch whilst taking Sam's pulse. There was a nod, then a shake, and the man let go, striding over to the chart at the end of the bed, jotting down whatever acquired info.

Sam didn't turn their way, but stared mindlessly across the room, blinking slowly. It was a little hard to tell if he was the least bit coherent. In ill regard of it, Dean continued forward.

Bresley looked up. "Ah, come on in gentlemen. Sam's pulse is steady, but he is at most awake. You can talk to him, but I wouldn't recommend any loud voices. I want his heart to be relaxed at all costs, am I clear?"

Both men nodded in affirmation.

"Oh good," the doc said curtly, before resuming his work on the chart.

Dean cautiously approached his brother's side. "Sam?"

The once steady _beep_ from the heart monitor in the back stepped up its tempo. His brother sluggishly turned his head, peering up at him with tired eyes. There was a brief crease of his lips before he said, "Hey", afterward casting his eyes down as if in shame.

A searing spasm tore through Dean's gut at that. It left him in a state of limbo, awkwardly trying to pull his senses back together. He wanted to be angry, but yet, simultaneously be the brother Sam needed.

"Sam, can you hear me?" Bresley was once again at Sam's side. Sam darted his attention to the other side of the bed, his mossy greens growing large as though he was oblivious to the other person in the room. Though subtlety, Dean could see his body tense up.

"Mr. Winchester, can you understand what I'm saying," the doc articulated, pulling out his penlight.

Sam nodded.

"Good. Now look at me for a second," Bresley wove the light across, "m'kay, that's good. Now," he straightened out a finger and asked Sam to follow it.

After a few more minutes of the basic senses tests, Bresley seemed somewhat content. "Alright Sam, I'm gonna ask you a few more questions and I need you to be totally honest with me. Lately have you been having any shortness of breath? Any at all?"

Dean perked up at the sudden inquiry. He knew what the doc was up to. Apart from Stanford, he had to know just how long the subsequent symptoms began and how long had the boy gone without treatment. And if Sam had any previous problems, now he would find out just how much his little brother had been hiding behind his back.

A great sigh of disaffection was released when Sam slowly nodded.

"You have?" Bresley continued. "Does it get worse when you're lying down…good," he replied when Sam shook his head.

"What could that mean?" Dean asked.

"That is one of the first symptoms of left-sided heart failure where it mostly affects the pulmonary circuit, before it develops into the right side of the heart where it'll affect his circulation."

"Whoa," Sam rasped, "Heart failure?" The monitor in the back wailed and Sam suddenly grew restless, his fingers shakily fumbling with the thin blankets.

A little perturbed, both Bobby and Dean glanced at Sam before resting their trepid eyes on the doc. _He hadn't told him yet?_

"Sam, I need you to listen to me," Bresley leaned over, placing a gorilla-sized hand softly on Sam's chest, peering intensely at the patient. "Listen to me. You have to calm down. You're not in the final stages of heart failure, but if you don't calm down, you will."

Needless to say, that worked. Dean was amazed at how quick Sam stopped fidgeting and honed in his attention.

Bresley continued to hover. "Now that I have your attention. I'm gonna ask you a few more questions. Have you experienced any dizziness, confusion, any disorientation in the last few weeks?"

Sam looked away before he admitted, "A few times."

"A few times," the doc repeated, stepping back. "What about any swelling?"

"Just my ankles."

"Your ankles," the doc huffed. "Alright, now this is real important. Have you been experiencing any angina, any discomfort in your chest, or sometimes in your arms?"

Sam closed his eyes briefly stating a small "yes."

The doc's expression was unreadable and Dean was slightly unnerved by it. "How long have you been having the angina Sam? The last few days or so?"

Sam shook his head.

"Weeks?"

Again, another shake.

Bresley made a sigh. "Months?"

Dean felt his heart break when his sibling hesitated, feeling the splintered pieces embed into his stomach when finally his brother gave an affirmed nod.

"Months," Bresley nodded heavily. "Sam, why didn't you get checked. At least seek the source for the chest pain."

Sam didn't have to answer for Dean already knew it. They were so hell-bent lately on finding their mother's and his girlfriend's killer, along with finding their father that any and all other unrelated problems were put on hold.

"What about fatigue? Loss of appetite? Any of that in the last few weeks or months?"

Dean had to turn away when Sam admitted to some more symptoms. He covered his mouth, feeling ill. How was it that he hadn't bothered to notice? He had been by Sam's side the entire time? Aside from the last couple of weeks where he wanted nothing but to be alone, it was understandable. But for the last few months? No friggin' way.

"What all does this mean doc," Bobby had finally spoken. The man had been so quiet. Dean nearly forgot he was there.

"Well," Bresley rubbed the side of his golden brown face. "It means that he's been dealing with this a hell of a lot longer than I anticipated. Luckily we caught it now. For now, he'll be here for a little while longer under observation. I want to put him through a series of tests mainly for this ailment. We'll see then how far it has progressed."

Sam suddenly looked to Bresley with big eyes. "Doc, I think…I…may have…had a heart…attack e-earlier," he panted.

The doc's eyebrow arched. "What do you mean?"

"A…A c-couple nights ago. I…got…into a fight. And my chest…my chest was…was on fire. It…felt…like it exploded, it hurt…so bad."

Dean turned to Bobby, both men realizing about the night in the alley. Sam had mentioned he was feeling good, but nothing like that.

Bresley, however, still looked a little confused. "I'm not so sure if you had a heart attack per se. The previous tests we took hadn't shown a blockage in an artery or suspected damage. Did it feel like, say, twisting, or something crushing it?"

"Yea."

"Hmmm, perhaps what you were experiencing was what we call a "warning stroke". It feels like a real stroke but has none of the dangerous causes. I guarantee you if you had the real thing, it would feel so much worse and you would probably be dead. When you were brought in, the paramedics informed me you were in cardiac arrest, mainly because there was no cardiac output. You hadn't felt anything because you were asleep."

Sam calmed at the prognosis.

"More or less, my guess is that when you were in a fight, the overexertion set it in motion. And it was your body telling you it's had enough. It couldn't handle any more stress. We need to make sure for the future you take on as little stress as possible. There are several stress-relieving exercises, some physical exercise regimens you can do to keep your body in shape, but I stress that cautiously. Overall, take it easy."

"So what now?" Bobby asked.

"From what I've concluded, I'd say Sam, you're at stage C. According to the American College of Cardiology, that means that you're having previous or current symptoms of heart failure but it can be managed with medicinal treatment."

"What's the worst stage?"

Bresley sighed again. "Stage D," he replied diffidently, cringing at the shocked expressions coming from both the older brother and the uncle. "At that stage, he is in need for a transplant. But like I said earlier, we'll have him on ACE inhibitors, diuretics, and other types to help prevent it going into that stage. It won't be easy, but hopefully it won't come to having to wait for a donor."

Sam said nothing, as did the others. The news, on a scale, that Sam could be so close, was effortlessly daunting. No one said another word as Bresley gave his condolences, a quick reassurance that he and his staff will do all that they can, and left the party to their thoughts.

The heart monitored beeped erratically in the back, picking up the third and fourth irregular heartbeat. Dean shuddered taking in a shaky breath while Bobby pulled up a chair to help settle his quivering knees.

This was a real serious and scary-as-Hell situation. One that neither Winchester nor Bobby had foreseen in their long careers of serious and scary. Sam was the first to break the agonizing silence. "Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean sent a downward glare and his nostrils flared. The brewing anger was now rearing back on its haunches, beginning to come down with its hundred pound hooves, the shock adding power to the raging steed.

"If you're going to yell, go ahead," Sam added painfully, sounding like a small child preparing for a giant scolding, "I'm ready."

"You knew about this?" Dean accused.

"No."

"Don't you dare lie to me," he replied icily, dangerous venom tainting his tone. "They found some of your files at Stanford. Apparently you had a little problem…oh, let's see just like this one!"

"Dean, stop it," Bobby announced. "We don't need this."

"No," Dean challenged, glowering fiercely at the old man before turning back to Sam. "So when were you going to tell us Sammy? Now, or when I'm making funeral arrangements?"

Sam flinched at the raised voice. "I didn't know it w-was this bad."

"Oh you didn't know," Dean drawled childishly, "but yet you just told the doc you been dealing with all these symptoms for months. Months Sammy!"

"Dean, I swear…"

"So you're telling me you didn't know about Stanford?"

"I did, but—"

"But what? Didn't feel the need to tell your brother. Your family? So what is it? Did you think that if it got any worse, you'd run away like you did before and we'd be none the wiser. My little brother would be dead and I wouldn't even know. Selfish Sammy. That's all it is, you're just one selfish bastard."

"Dean," Bobby warned.

But Dean dismissed it, too much in his own grief and misery to really care. All he was aware of was his voice practically yelling, and every deep emotion was being released like the cork popping off the emotional bottle. "I'm hurt Sam. I am. I'm hurt that my own brother couldn't trust me to help him. That he needed to keep this all a secret so we can keep tracking down that fucking bastard. I can't believe you. I don't even know you anymore!"

Sam continued to be mute, keeping his eyes downcast at the blankets, the blankets balled tight under his clenched fists.

Having enough of the tirade, Bobby stood up, stomped over to the fretful brother and poked him hard in the shoulder. Dean suddenly tensed up as though he were going to strike. But Bobby stopped it with a pointed finger.

"Don't you even think about raising a fist to me boy! I'll knock you into the next world so fast your head will spin. Now either knock off this attitude or get the Hell out of here. You're not doing anything but getting us all riled up, especially him," he pointed to Sam, "and he doesn't need it, of all people. I get that you're angry, but most of all, you're just scared."

Dean huffed in disagreement.

"You're scare, as we all are. Now this pent up anger is only going to do more harm than good. So you go! And you don't come back until you've calmed down and got your head back on. Am I understood?"

Dean stood defiantly.

"I won't tell you again," the old man snarled, shoving Dean forward. "GO!"

"Fine," Dean seethed through clenched teeth. He walked away, catching sight of a water vase. Emitting out a war-like roar, he chucked it across the room, relishing in the breaking glass and splashing contents. In a state of rage, he stomped from the room issuing out curses along the way.

Bobby panted heavily, his own anger subsiding. He turned and gave a silent soft look to the boy on the bed, who refused to look up, lost in his own world of oppression.

**Awww, poor Sammy! Yep, Dean needs some anger management. But like I said, he'll be back. I've got lots more coming up. So hopefully it won't be as long a wait. But we'll see! Thanks!**


	9. Beauty of the Beast

***Bows head in shame* I know, I know. It's been way too long. Longer than I even care to talk about, and I'm sorry. The other story is finished now, and so I plan to devote my full attention to this fic. Beginning with the sticky relationship b/t Sam and Dean. Song Title from **_**Nightwish**_**. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Eight:**

**Beauty of the Beast**

It was a Monday night and Chloe, the head nurse of the ICU section, was completing her rounds. She came to last door on the left with a large smile. It was the last one before she could take off for the night. Her favorite show was coming on within the next half hour and she never missed a single minute of any episode. She grabbed for the chart, ready to jot down the last few notes and high tail it out of there.

The door stood ajar. Leveling the clipboard, she accidentally took a peek inside. The patient, a young man, was lying on the bedspread with his head turned towards the door, unnervingly quiet. A deep sadness marked over his pale features. A man—the father from the looks of it—held onto the hand of the young man. Long wrinkles were bunched around his wise eyes. He grasped the boy's hand harder, as though pleading with him, begging him not to give up.

Chloe lowered the chart some more. From the previous notes taken, she read the young man was only twenty-three years old and had undergone a mild case of cardiac arrest. From the tests written, she also saw he was at high risk for heart failure. Though never one to become emotionally attached, Chloe felt a side dish of sympathy. It was always heartbreaking for young people to face nature's unforgivable mercy.

Without realizing it, she was watching, hardly able to turn herself away. She heard the old man say, "Come on Sam, talk to me. You haven't uttered a single word all day. Don't be like this."

The young patient said nothing, except continuing to stare absently across the room. Chloe was about to leave. She wanted to leave. It was situations like this that typically tugged at her heartstrings; situations she typically avoided like the plague.

"Sam, look at me," the father directed. "Look at me." Sam slowly turned his head, eliciting a small smile on the old man's face. "Good. Now you know your brother better than any one else. He's scared. This is how he acts when he's scared, right?"

Still the patient was mute. _What?_ _Did that brute Bresley give him a tracheotomy or something?_ Chloe checked the chart to be sure.

"Well, he does. He's angry, mainly because you both have been through a lot this past year. You lost your father and now this," the man placed another hand on top of the boy's, "You have to stay strong kid. This isn't the end. You'll brother will see that, and when he does, he'll be back. Dean just needs to blow off some steam, that's all."

Now aware that the man wasn't the actual father, but possibly a mere stranger—maybe a good friend—Chloe flipped back the paperwork on the board. Sometimes it wasn't worth it to eavesdrop and become involved in circumstances she had no knowledge of. She put the chart back into its plastic holder when the patient let out a severely harsh cough.

It seemed like a regular thing. But Chloe knew better. This was a high-risk heart patient. Coughing generally wasn't a good thing. She waited by the door, on high alert. The young man coughed again, his chest arching forward. The father worriedly called the boy's name, but he could not answer back. Chloe raced in immediately when she heard the rough choking gasps.

"Help. Help," the father pronounced, tears shining at the brim of his lids. "He can't breathe!"

"Step back sir, and press the call button," Chloe ordered, cupping her hand around the back of the young man's head. His eyes were wild with panic, his face marred with pain. His body bucked with cough after cough. "Shhh, calm down sweetie. Try to calm down. Fight it," she coached.

"What's happening?" the father yelled panic-stricken.

"I don't know. Has he had this before?"

"No!"

"Okay. Okay," Chloe tried to calm herself down. She pulled off the nasal cannula and reached for an oxygen mask. She had to work quickly in getting him to breathe regularly. This was putting too much stress on his heart. "Hit the call button again. I need help in here."

…

Dean put the truck's rusty gear into drive...before changing his mind and placing it back into park. He was planning on heading back to the hospital. He wanted to go back to the hospital. There was a strong urge to see his brother now, saying that Sam was in trouble.

He lingered on that thought for a moment.

Of course Sam was in trouble. Sam was dying…or was very close to dying. One more step and he would've taken a Thelma and Louise jump off the cliff.

Feeling incredibly overwhelmed by that notion, he needed to get some air. The night rang with the door's ear-grating creaks as he opened it. The creaking echoed some more as he harshly closed it, nature angrily hollering back in response. Dean rolled his eyes. Like he really gave a bat-turd about disturbing the nightlife's peace.

Up ahead was the pier. After storming out of his brother's hospital room, his temper besting him, he drove to a nearby lake. Having been to this area once as a child, he felt a strong desire to see it again. The water glistened like black obsidian glass, still, and smooth, and at peace. He had hoped it would instill a bit of that peace in him. But he wasn't that optimistic.

He took a deep breath, taking in the smell of rotten cabbage and stale body odor. It tasted worse, like salty seaweed, the wind a gentle tickle on his skin. At the edge of the old wooden structure, he took a seat, his feet hanging off the side.

Dean didn't think he could ever get used to this Grief thing. Hands down, it was making him miserable. First their father unexpectedly takes a cruiseline down the river Styx, and now it's looking like his brother very well maybe thinking about the same trip. He couldn't bear to think about it anymore. There was no other outlet.

_I mean, why Sammy? Why him now?_ He just didn't get it. Was this a test of some sort? For him? For Sam? To see how well they could keep the weak structure of their family together?

His father's message rang like church bells in his head. _If you can't save him, kill him..._

Yeah, besides the dark foreboding that came with that message, it left a hole the size of Jupiter in his heart. Either he had to save Sam from the dark preternatural enemies that wanted, or save him from a very real, a very believable, darker enemy, a disease. He wanted to save Sam. But how?

Dean couldn't think of what to do. He wanted to go back to Sam, beg for forgiveness. But deep down he feared so. Going back meant watching Sam struggle to survive. Going back meant there was an even bigger fight on their hands, and he wasn't sure if he was ready for it. He shook his head, laughing. Damn, never before had he felt this sorry for himself. It was sickening.

It wasn't he that was facing death. It was his brother. And he was here acting like an emo-angst-filled teenager.

His hand reached up to his necklace. Unwrapping the band from around his neck, he took a long, hard glance at the golden pendant his brother gave to him as a Christmas present when they were kids. If he got rid of it, maybe the memory of Sam will be just as swift and pain-free. The tiny Egyptian face stared back at him, as though scrutinizing his intended action. He sneered, slinging his arm back, ready to pitch it into the lake. Down in the murky depths, it won't be able to criticize him. It'll be gone forever.

His arm caught midway through the swing, the cord clinging around his wrist. He sat stunned, afraid of what that meant. He opened his hand, and the pendant, if at all possible, glowed in his palm, slick with sweat. He took another swing. And still the pendant clung to his hand, as though a part of him couldn't, just wouldn't, let it go.

Gazing once more at the calm lake, he put the necklace back on. Maybe a part of him couldn't see to let Sam go so easily. It would be easier on his part, but he just couldn't do that. He stood up and walked back to the loaned truck. He needed some more time before he could face his brother again.

…

Sam had been struggling to breathe for a solid twenty minutes. Chloe checked the pressure gauge on the O2 tank a third time. It was a little below thirty PSI. So that couldn't have been the problem. Whatever was happening, her patient could not manage to hold a single breath. The doctor on call had left a second to go to get a dose of Atrovent, an anticholinergic drug that normally acted like an inhaler in opening up a patient's airway.

She had the patient up on his side, pressing the mask hard into his face. His face was the color of cauliflower, his forehead dripping with sweat. The boy's harsh pants for air were threatening her resolve. She looked into his eyes and stopped. They were swiveling in their sockets, as though searching. For what, she wasn't sure, but there was no doubt. He was searching for something. Maybe someone. _Where in the hell is that doctor?_

"Is this normal?" Bobby cried, noting the tight grip Sam held onto his hand. It hurt, but he managed to cling on.

"Sometimes," Chloe answered breathlessly, "With heart failure, coughing is normal. But it usually happens if a patient is under extreme duress."

"But he doesn't have heart failure just yet. He—"

"I know sir. But he is at high risk right now, at least until we get him to calm down. This may very well be a panic attack. Can you talk to him? Tell him to think of a happy place or something. The doc will be back in a few seconds."

Bobby leaned forward closer to Sam, the boy's harsh wheezes tearing his old heart to pieces. "Sam, it's me. It's Bobby. You need to calm down, okay? You can't breathe if you don't calm down." Sam's struggle continued. His other fist clenched and unclenched the bedsheets in a death grip.

"Try something else," Chloe urged.

Bobby gripped Sam's hand tighter. "Come on boy. Listen to me. Please." He wasn't sure but he felt Sam's movement slow, his breathing long and strained. It was clear he was trying to listen, which had Bobby on edge. He hadn't a clue what to say. Every second counted. "Uh…just uh, hang on. Dean's coming. He is. He just called me and said he was on his way back."

Bobby knew it was an obvious lie. However, it seemed to have worked. Sam's body slowly came to a halt, his breathing more under control. Chloe continued to keep the mask on, keeping her eye on the door, still waiting for the doc to return. Bobby blew a sigh of relief. That was the trick. He leaned in some more, "Yeah that's right. Your brother is coming back. You don't want him to see you like this. You're doing good son."

The young doctor came back in with a full syringe. Immediately he administered the small dose to Sam, throwing the rest away in the biohazard box. Instantly Sam took a long intake of air. The bright color in his eyes came back, in focus, the normal red tint to his cheeks returning. Letting out one long extended exhale, his body slumped onto his back in exhaustion. Within seconds he was asleep.

Chloe removed the mask, replacing the cannula. Bobby and the doc went about setting Sam back into his regular position, the adrenaline of the last few minutes still flooding their senses. They all exchanges glances, each letting out a long sigh.

Bobby shook his head and hissed under his breath, "Dammit Dean."

…

The diner was just a couple of miles from the hospital. Instead of wallowing in a drunken stupor at some bar, Dean opted to hit a local reserve. Perhaps with a full stomach, he'll be able to think rationally. He needed to get his head screwed back on straight, forget about all that he had done during the day, about how he up and left his frail and possibly dying brother to himself. He needed an escape. Something. Anything.

The "Silver Diner" was a cozy spot. Its establishment was just that, silver. Silver walls, silver booths, shiny counters; even the waitresses wore silver. It was any kind of shapeshifters nightmare. He wouldn't mind coming back to it on occasion. Something about it just sparkled. He settled for a booth in the way back, quiet and isolated from the other customers. The warm cup of coffee sat empty on the silver checkered tabletop.

A long-legged waitress sauntered over with a full pot of coffee. He barely caught a glimpse as she refilled his cup full of black liquid. She said in a sympathetic voice, "You look like you just lost your dog."

He huffed, "If only."

"Someone close to you then? Relative?"

Dean found himself nodding. It was unintentional, as though his body were possessed. The waitress sighed emphatically. "I'm sorry to hear that. Was it recent?"

At first he hesitated. Never before had he willingly shared his personal problems, to a stranger no less. "Uh," he cleared his throat, "my dad. He uh, he passed away a couple weeks ago. And now my brother—"

"Oh sweet heavenly Father, I'm so sorry. You lost them both?"

"No. No," Dean looked up and paused. The waitress was beautiful. She looked to be about mid-twenties, with short-cropped hair, bright emerald eyes. He had never seen such eyes. He read the name "Caroline" off the silver plated nametag. "No, my brother is alive. He's just…uh, it's complicated."

Caroline took a seat on the opposite side of the booth, setting the coffee pot to the side. "Is he alright?"

Dean's mouth fell agape. Her eyes held him in a thrall, and he couldn't break from it. Her voice was soothing and soft, alluring almost. He shook his head. "I…I just found out Sammy has uh…he's in the beginning stages of heart failure. It's been ongoing for a long time and he hasn't done anything about it."

"Did he know?"

He shook his head once more. "He says he didn't. The doc said he wouldn't have known, and now I don't know. I don't think I can handle this."

"Tell me what happened."

It wasn't an eager fanatic order, but more of an honest-to-God inquiry and Dean suddenly felt an entire wave of butterflies take flight in his stomach. He glanced carelessly around at the other waitresses. "Don't you have tables to be running? I don't think you have the kind of time to hear about my problems."

Caroline shrugged. "Nah, they won't miss me. It's a slow night. Manager's in the back swarmed with paperwork. It's alright."

Dean's eyebrow arched. He wasn't sure if he should indulge her interest. This was far out of his comfort zone, especially when he wasn't using it as a technique for picking up chicks. But for some reason, he found himself spilling out his gut-wrenching life-story, excluding the hunting part, of course. His mind was strongly against it, had nervous allegations suggesting perhaps he was over-sharing, but Caroline carried on listening. However awkward it was confessing to a complete stranger, it felt right. He had a lot to vent about and needed it off his chest.

"…and now I feel like such a jackass. I argued with him, yelled at him, accused him of keeping this news behind my back when, now that I think about it, he couldn't have. I was with him the entire time," he rubbed the back of his head, peering up at the silver banisters in the ceiling. "I'm such a dumbass and a whiny jerk. The time he needed me the most, I let him down."

He looked back at the waitress. "Caroline, I give you full permission to put a bullet in my head." She winced at that. "Scum like me shouldn't be allowed to wander the Earth."

"Hey now," Caroline leaned forward, patting his hand softly. "There'll be none of that mister. Sounds to me like you're being too hard on yourself."

"No, I'm not," he defended.

"Yes, you are."

"And why's that?"

She recounted everything he had told her. To the point where Dean was surprised she could say it all detail for detail. He felt slightly embarrassed.

"You're still a bigger man than anyone else that I know." Dean looked at her peculiarly. So she continued. "Well for one, you just openly admitted how you feel. Some of the bravest men of this planet can't do that, unless of course they're seeing a shrink. And two, you just lost your father. This is a lot to take in after a couple of weeks."

Dean nodded, completely taken aback by her charisma. In a way, he cherished it. What was the matter with him?

Caroline's emeralds glistened and he felt at ease. "I know you feel like a jerk. A dimwit. Someone who needs to be kicked in the groin, strung up by their toes and smacked raw with a piece of bamboo—" Dean inwardly flinched at the graphic image—"But don't. Anyone else would have reacted the same way. Say the same things. And it's okay because you were scared."

Dean eyed the side window. "I'm not scared."

She caught his gaze with a hard stare. "Dean, your father just passed away and now your brother is stricken with a life-threatening illness," she shrugged. "Anyone else would've dropped off a cliff by now."

"Okay. Okay. What's your point?"

"My point is Dean, you reacted like everyone else. It was inevitable. It's done. There's nothing you can do to go back and change that. But you can do what some others can't."

"And what is that?"

"Go back. Make amends. I can see it your eyes that you want to really bad. But that crippling fear of rejection is holding you back."

Dean shook his head. "They won't take me back. Not after what I did."

Caroline pursed her lips, giving him a side-glance. "Somehow I doubt that. You said you and your brother are all you have left of your family. I don't see him wanting to go about this all by himself. Besides, how will you really know? Unless you go back," she stood up, taking the coffee pot. "It'll be okay Dean. Sometimes we gotta be the brave ones and do the right thing when no one else will be. Otherwise there wouldn't be leaders. Have a good night."

And with that, she strolled away, disappearing behind the swinging kitchen door. Dean was left dumbfounded. That was one blunt way to put things. But even after all that she had said he still felt a smidgeon of guilt. He picked up his coffee cup, but didn't take a sip. Something tingled inside of him. And for once it wasn't nauseating or heavy. It was light and fulfilling. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time, dare he say it…hope.

He glanced back at the swinging doors and something woke up inside of him. Setting the mug back down, he pulled out a couple of dollar bills and set it on the table. It was time to stop acting like self-absorbed sorry ass and head back. Back to a little brother that needed him. Back to his family that forevermore he will fight to keep alive, even if it killed him in the end. With a slight hop in his step, he left out the door in a hurry.

…

At night, the hospital was relatively quiet. Taps from Dean's leather shoes resonated amongst the walls, forcing him to make slow stilted steps. It was a long hard haul to the end of the fourth floor. At one point, Dean only hoped that he could remember which door Sam's room was.

The length of the fourth floor wasn't as long as he remembered. Before he knew it he was outside the door. It was closed, the inside dark. Dean stood there for a full minute, contemplating, debating whether he should go in. After that minute, he took a deep breath, crossed his fingers, and went in.

The room was dark except for the small overhead light over Sam's bed. His brother was on his side facing away from the door sound asleep. Bobby also was asleep in the nearby chair, his head supported on the backstand. Dean gently shut the door behind him, careful to barely make a sound—much like he was trained.

But no matter how well his skills were Bobby picked up on the slightest movement. The old man opened his eyes, and Dean couldn't tell if he saw a spark of anger or a flooding of relief. He barely made a sound approaching the two, his head bowed in shame. Bobby had said nothing in acknowledgment, and it unnerved him. Yeah, he was still a little pissed.

Dean stepped up to Sam's side. In the light his brother was still pale and unmoving, giving him a vivid reminder of that previous morning. Trembling, Dean asked in a small voice, "How is he?"

Bobby gave a great huff, sitting straighter in his chair. "Doing better than earlier. He had a small attack." The blood drained from Dean's face, which Bobby noticed immediately. "It was just a bad coughing fit. Rendered him breathless for a good twenty minutes. It…it was real scary."

"But he's okay now? Right?" Dean couldn't keep the panic out of his voice.

"You care now?"

Dean flinched at the severity of that question. He knew Bobby was being hard with him, as he should. His gazed traveled up and settled onto the old man. "Yeah I do. I was an ass earlier, but I've cooled down now. I'm here for good."

Bobby slumped down into the leather-cushioned chair. "Good to hear it son. Keep your voice down, you don't want to wake him."

"It's okay Bobby, I'm already awake," a sleepy voice called out. Dean and Bobby, both, looked down at Sam who was turning over onto his back, peering up gratefully at his brother. "You came back?"

Dean scoffed. "Of course I did," he shrugged. "Not a lot of places for me to go around here, you know?"

"But I thought—"

"What? You thought what Sammy?" Dean didn't mean to sound so bitter, especially when Sam went silent. "I'm sorry kid. It's been a long day. I can see why you thought…what you did. But I'm letting you know now that that's never going to happen."

Sam gave a small heartfelt smile. And so it pained Dean to have to do what he did next. He had to know, to get it behind him…even if it made him feel a bit hypocritical in that he was keeping something from Sam. "But Sammy, I have to know. Did you keep any of this from me?"

The sad twinkle glinted in the kid's eye. It suggested that he felt slightly betrayed his brother still hadn't believed him, and that was what Dean was waiting for. "No Dean. Honest to God, I didn't know."

Dean exhaled deeply. He didn't know if it out of alleviation that Sam could still be trusted or fear that it might be too late to save his brother. "Okay. Then … I think that's it."

Sam suddenly looked a bit fearful. "What is?"

Dean licked his lips. "It's time to start anew Sammy. We can't keep living the type of lifestyle we have if you're this sick. In order to combat it, then—"

"You mean?"

"Time to settle down. And that means no hunting…"

"But Dean," Sam protested, which caught him by surprise, including Bobby looked a little stunned.

"Sam don't argue," Dean looked him squarely in the eye. "If you're gonna survive this, if we're going to go through with this, then we can't be worrying about a salt and burn every night. It's too risky."

"And Yellow-Eyes?"

"Screw that effing demon. We can't be chasing after that thing now. And if that fugly bastard shows up, we'll take the necessary precautions then. In the meantime, we'll keep the wards posted and do what we have to do to stay invisible. We have to Sam. Not until you're back to being one hundred percent. Okay?"

For a brief second, Sam appeared a little disappointed. Dean could see the small shift of his lips curving. It wasn't totally surprising. Sam still sought revenge for Jess. But if he wanted to acquire that revenge, then he had to stay healthy and alive. This was the deal breaker. "Sammy, okay?"

"Okay," came the tiny reply.

"Good," Dean went over and pulled up a chair. He sent a cursory glance towards his mentor. "Unfortunately I have a feeling it's going to get tough from here on out, but you have us to back you up. Bobby and I will be with you the entire way through."

Sam gave another small appreciative smile. It had been so long since Dean had seen it, and it warmed his heart. He propped his feet on the bed. "Besides it's not like you can cope with something like this without me."

"What?" Sam's eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement.

Dean shot back one of his teasing grins. "Oh come on, you can't even tie one of your shoes without me, let alone deal with a heart condition."

"Oh is that so?"

"Yep."

"Alright jerk, we'll see."

"Bring it on bitch."

"Boys," Bobby's thunderous roared enveloped the room. "Knock it off. Trying to get some shut eye here." He resumed his original sleeping position, smirking a little at the snickers in the background. His boys were back, and now they had a new journey to trek. And Lord knows how many bumps and dangerous terrain were ahead of them.

**Well, like I promised Dean is back to being the brother we all know and love. And he'll be that way for the remainder of the story. Again sorry it took so long to update. But there'll be another chapter here shortly. Thanks for tuning in. Cya!**


	10. The List

**Okay now, I must let you know ahead of time that this story will begin to wind down a bit. Not much suspense, action, yada yada yada. Oh but don't worry, , there will be soon. ;p Enjoy!**

**Chapter Nine:**

**The List**

_Sioux County: Seven months and One week ago. _

The morning sun broke through the foggy haze, blanketing the small town of Sioux in a shade of devil red. An orange ray of light shot through the dirty windowpane, enveloping the room in a wave of welcoming warmth. Sam instinctually rolled over away from the beam. In his book, the break of dawn was never welcome. A new day meant a new fight.

However, it did bring with it a comfortable ambiance; one that Sam yearned to wake up to on a daily basis. It was warm, auspicious, and quiet. Sam enjoyed the silence the most. Used to sputtering automobiles, noisy neighbors, and rambunctious wildlife, the noise was a constant burden. The dark circles beneath his eyes gave testament to that. So now in Bobby's house, out in the countryside, with the radiant sun giving rise to a new day, without waking to any of the usual ruckus, he savored every second. At least until…

**COCKADOODLE-DOOOOO…**

Sam emitted a long groan, slowly checking his watch. 6:08 a.m., on the dot. He groaned a second time.

**COCKADOODLE-DO-DOOOOO…**

It was that damn rooster again, disturbing his wonderful silence. Sam didn't think Bobby had ever owned a rooster until a few weeks back. The pesky son of a bird made a habit every morning at this time announcing the dawn's arrival. His caw was long and shrill, forcing every sleeping member to cringe. It would carry on with its call a few times before…

**COCKA- BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.**

On cue, the sound of the double-barrel shotgun went off followed shortly by Dean's gruff threats. "Shut up you piece of shit, or there's gonna be chicken legs on the menu tonight!" Pieces of the fence exploded under the rooster's feet as it scurried away along the narrow plywood. Several craggy holes bore into the long planks, revealing the many times Dean shot at his target. Dean must've had one eye open, because each time, he'd miss the damn thing.

Sam would have laughed if he didn't think it would put too much stress on his heart. He hated that. He absolutely despised being limited to certain things.

Sluggishly he pulled himself from the bed. He'd only been home from the hospital for a little more than a week and still he felt weak, boneless. The chill from the floor drove icy spikes through the soles of his feet at the brief touch. Sliding across the wooden flooring on the sides of his feet, he scurried to find a decent pair of socks.

There was a pile by his duffle. The first pair he picked up had several worn holes, no good; the next set were found chewed—probably thanks to the dog; and his favorite pair were…missing.

Sam huffed in disdain. That was his luck to not find a pair of socks at the time of need. Reluctantly he settled for the pair of neon-orange plush slippers Dean nicked from a motel in Wisconsin. Why they were in his room, Sam hadn't a clue. But it wasn't like he really was apt to ponder their purpose; the quivers in his frozen feet were already abating.

He sat back on the bed and grabbed the first of the three prescription bottles on the nightstand, popping in the first set of pills. And as the time before, they went down rough, the texture of the little white circles adhering to the back of his throat. He never did like dry swallowing, but he wanted it over and done with. Quickly he went for the second one, grimacing at the taste. It reminded him more of choking down rubbery balloons. The last set, _Coreg_, he had to wait to take during meal times. _Ugh…_

His heart thumped loudly inside, possibly in giving thanks. Sam ignored it. Because of its decrepit condition, he was constantly watched as though he was on yard detail at the local penitentiary. Sometimes he wondered if he could get away with not following his medicine schedule of three times a day. But it was a fool's errand, as his brother was counting the number of pills each and every day.

He stayed on the bed for a moment longer, reveling the next few minutes. Lately time felt like a long windy bobrun: wild and out of control, taking him along for the ride—except it forgot to pack the brakes. The week had gone by faster than he expected. Tomorrow he would have to go in for his first check up at a local clinic several counties away: the first in a long lineup of appointments. He could hardly wait.

Two days after he was admitted, Doctor Bresley had cleared him of immediate danger based on the few tests. Bobby then informed the doc that Sam would be staying at his residence in the state over. Bresley at first was a bit chary about the decision; often addressing the fact their facility had the best Cardio Department for Sam's type of condition, but soon conceded at Bobby's stern refusal. Advised to go to a specific clinic in Adena who specialized in the certain tests Sam needed, several appointments were set.

Rising up on shaky legs, he grasped the bedstand in preparation for the usual lightheadedness. Every time he stood up, a small case of vertigo befell him; one of the many side effects of the medication he was prescribed, which also included occasional shakes, frequent bathroom trips to the _Piss Abyss_, oh and his favorite: fainting. The last time it happened he was on the pot where he woke up to his brother cleaning him off. And that included wiping his _ass_. Yeah, that was fun! The number of chest pains decreased, so what was he to complain about?

His bright neon slippers padded lightly down the hallway towards the stairs. He passed the last door on the right where a sleepy tousled-haired Dean emerged, shotgun in hand. Running a hand through his messy hair, Dean yawned giving Sam a shrug. "Used up my last few rounds."

"Uh huh," Sam yawned back, "Not surprised. You haven't hit that damn thing yet. Seriously man, get glasses."

"Shut up dude," Dean amiably swatted his shoulder. "Besides I don't have to."

"And why's that?"

"Because I have you to guide me. With those bright ass slippers, you can call in boats with those things," Dean quipped, the corners of his lips creased into a wide Cheshire grin.

Sam softly chuckled, shuffling down the stairs one at a time. The sound of sizzling caught their attention, and their noses tilted up following the delicious scent. The closer they approached the kitchen the more their mouths watered. It smelt good, of frying eggs, toasting biscuits, and…oatmeal?

Sure enough they were greeted with a set table and several steaming pans. Bobby waltzed around the stove and counters gracefully carrying a skillet. Anyone's first impression would have been he was on a star cooking show, the man was that good. It was the same every morning, waking to a scrumptious breakfast served _a la carte_ by a wannabe not-so-bad chef. Hey, they weren't complaining.

Sam resumed his regular seat at the table whilst Dean took over the spatula in scrambling the eggs. Often he'd offered to help, but instantly was shooed away by brother dear, claiming that the two grown men could handle it. He wasn't up to arguing with Dean again this morning, so he took his seat awaiting his meal. Dean turned around and raised both eyebrows at him. Sighing in annoyance at the silent demand, Sam took out his last prescription bottle, shook it to appease his brother, and set it by the shotgun.

Dean continued beating the eggs until they were well fluffy, bouncing like defunktafied ping-pong balls. He took the skillet off the heat. "When are you going to get rid of that damn bird Bobby?"

Bobby shifted his ballcap, stirring the pot of oatmeal. "Didn't know we had one," he replied curtly.

Both Sam and Dean paused and stared at him with blank looks. The old man shrugged offhandedly, lifting the pot of oatmeal off the stove and proceeded to pour a serving into the three bowls. Dean also went about dishing out the eggs onto each of the plates. Despite his brother's derisive glare, Sam retrieved the orange juice out of the fridge filling the cups. Setting the juice box to the side, he opened his pill bottle, and grimaced, taking the pill.

"Eh, toughen up Sammy. You'll get used to it in no time," Dean remarked. The chime on the little oven toaster rang. Stupidly he pulled all six square pieces out, howling at the sweltering heat, juggling the pieces on his way to the table. Each bread piece took flight landing perfectly on each plate.

Sam's lips curved down in amazement. "Bravo dude. Some more practice and you might make the audition for the circus." He chortled when Dean gave him the finger while he blew fiercely on the rest of his burnt digits.

"Now boys, enough of that," Bobby reprimanded, scooting his chair up to the table's edge. "Eat up. We have the rest of the day ahead of us."

Sam shrugged reaching for the aluminum salt container. Dean quickly leaned forward and smacked his hand, taking the shaker away. Sam scowled. "Dude, what was that for?"

"No salt. It speeds up your blood pressure," Dean emphasized pushing the canister to the far side of the table. His brother sighed in discontent reaching for the ketchup bottle whereas Dean took that away too.

Sam's face swelled. He was beginning to lose his temper. "No way Dean. I always have ketchup with my eggs. Give it back!"

Dean merely shook his head, unperturbed by his brother's outburst. "Nope. Not anymore. You can't have condiments either. It's on the list."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement, as did Bobby's. He slumped down unconvinced. "What list?"

"Your do's and don'ts list. Here," Dean stood up from the table and went over to his jacket, hung on the back of the computer table chair. He reached inside his side pocket and pulled out a printed sheet of paper. Strolling back casually, he said, "You, my brother, are a fragile machine and must come with a manual."

He stopped in front of the table and unfolded the sheet. "Did a little bit of research about this type of thing. And not only do you need to be on medication, but also you need to watch what you eat."

"And the doctor's list of instructions weren't good enough?" Sam questioned, a tickle of irritation escaping past his clenched teeth.

"Nope," Dean answered nonchalantly, regardless of the callous looks he was receiving. "You must avoid fruit juices or beverages with added sugar. Avoid cream milk. Avoid alcohol—bummer I know— and avoid processed food. No lean meat. No condiments such as mustard, ketchup, pickles, and sauces with extra salt. And last but certainly not least, no sodas, candy, which means no gummy bears, and/or fast food."

He gave a short grin, flipping over the page. He caught Sam's murderous look and gulped. Heaven knows the kid was plotting his downfall, possibly imagining chopping him up into tiny bits and feeding them to a pond full of guppies. But well, it came with the sibling package.

Dean cleared his throat, concentrating on the bulleted points. "Uh, let's see where was I…oh yeah, no strenuous lifting. No hardcore exercise, which obviously means no hunting. No unexpected scare tactics—which really sucks on my part. Oh, and no going anywhere unsupervised—"

"You made that up!" Sam protested angrily.

"Uh uh, it's right here," he faced the list towards Sam and tapped the highlighted sentence with drawn smiley faces on each side of the page. Dean sent a devious smirk, but Sam wasn't falling for it.

"Can I at least take a walk?"

"Uh, let me see," Dean peered back down at the paper. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, you can take a walk…"

"Good," Sam stood up abruptly heading for the upstairs, "I'll see ya in an hour." He was up the stairs before Dean had any time to argue.

"Sam, get back down here and finish your breakfast." There was no response. "Sammy, I'm not kidding. You get back down here now!" The hallway was still quiet.

Chucking the list to the side, Dean sat back down. His head hit the table, exasperated. Bobby eyed his spoonful of oatmeal, twirling it in the air. "Can't keep him on such a tight leash son. It won't be good for him."

Dean scoffed. "That's exactly what that kid needs. He won't listen to me. He won't listen to anybody. I've got to keep on this, cuz I know he won't."

"Is that what you really think of your brother?" Bobby raised an eyebrow.

Thinking about that question, Dean lifted his head off the table. He mewled, "No. Not really. I know Sammy's smart enough to take care of himself. But…" he paused, chewing his lower lip, "but what's going to happen if one day he's caught helpless and I'm none the wiser to help. I can't get caught with my pants down like last time. I won't do that to him again. I mean, you realize how close he was to—" he drew a finger across his throat.

"I know," Bobby peered at him with those wizened marbled blues, freezing him into place. "But Dean, that won't happen again. Because now we know what's going on, and we're going to do whatever it takes to make sure it doesn't get any worse."

Dean sighed in relief, in anticipation, in anxiousness, he wasn't sure. All of his emotions were part of one swirling mix that was building up to be one hell of a fearsome storm. _Save him_, John's voice echoed in his head.

"But," Bobby drawled out, "We can't hold Sam down under lock and key. He wasn't born to be in a cage. I can almost guarantee you that'll worsen things around here. Do you want that?"

Dean looked away, finding the scratches in the tabletop far more interesting. "No, I guess not," he turned his stern gaze back on Bobby, "but I'll give him forty-five minutes. Don't want him fainting on me again. I swear I need to keep a crane on standby to haul his heavy ass."

…

Fresh crisp air surged freely through Sam's lungs as he walked at a brisk pace. The wind factor had picked up a notch, blowing steadily the sweet scents of the daffodils and pine trees in his face. He relished it. It felt way too good to take for granted. Inside the old farmhouse was stifling, cramped. Out here in the open, it was freedom. Dark ominous clouds hung like animated watersprinklers with mischievous grins, cocked, and ready to douse. But he hadn't a care in the world. The long highway stretched as far as his eye can see, and he was almost brimming with excitement to get as far as his legs would carry.

It wasn't that he was aiming to run away from his family—though it seems like a good idea at the present time. Space was something he valued and cherished; would fight for if need be. He wasn't an idiot. He had done some research on this disease too. He wasn't totally invalid. Dean meant well, carrying on like the motherhen of the century, as Sam predicted he would. Except sometimes, Dean would forget to allow him room to breathe. He needed his space like any normal individual would. Taking a long walk down a perpetual highway seemed like the beneficial thing to do.

All things considered, Sam was glad that Dean was back to his regular self, instead of the angry whiny jerk role his brother had portrayed previously. All the rational explanations in the world explaining his brother's behavior escaped him. For a time, Sam couldn't understand Dean's malignity. He knew their father's death was hard on him, it hard on them all. But it hadn't explained the cutthroat attitude focused mainly at him. In a way, it was like his brother wanted him gone, tried to act nasty to push him away. It was absurd, sure. But Sam couldn't shake the feeling that there was something troubling Dean. Some secret. Something he couldn't say or do to alleviate its burden.

He hoped that wasn't the case, because if there were, then his brother was like a ticking time bomb. Eventually it'll explode.

The past week had been a nice change. Dean had a lot to make up to him for, and a part of him appreciated the effort. Though his brother practically breathed down his back, this week he was laughing again, smiling, goofing around. He was the brother he knew and loved, the one he had been looking up to since the age of four. Again, it was a nice change.

His heart condition, unbelievably, brought a new opportunity to them. Sam was forced to rest and relax and it gave Dean a new- and unreasonable, Sam thought- responsibility; a chance to take care of his sibling much like he used to when they were children. Though this time, Dean seemed a bit too enthusiastic about it.

However, it also made aware of a new dilemma—besides the part where it can develop into full blown heart failure and he can die. With himself sick and possibly vulnerable, the two Winchesters could very well be sitting ducks. There were too many things out there that wanted both of their heads on platters, not to mention the demon gone with the Colt. Sam didn't want to think about it. It hadn't mollified the severity of the situation a bit. Though he couldn't deny that this unexpected detour in his health had put a major crimp in their plan for retribution. It was a no-win scenario, unfortunately.

The flush of cool wind rushed against his body, the steady gust partly lifting him off the ground, and for a moment, he felt weightless. Adrenaline suddenly pumped through his veins, a newfound energy pulsing, threatening to burst through his skin. He took a giant leap forward, amazed at how easy it felt. He started to sprint, his long legs gaining a good distance.

It felt good to be out. It felt good to be alive. It wouldn't be too strenuous. It was just a little run. Forgetting about his heart for a minute, he continued. He had to keep going. He had to keep alive.

…

Dean absolutely hated this. Sitting on the front porch, drumming his fingers on the wooden planks, waiting, worrying. He hated having to worry about his brother for every second he was not within eyesight. His anxiousness could've compared to that of a new father waiting for news on his premature newborn. Just didn't know how to think, didn't know how to feel if the baby had made it or not. Every minute Sam was gone, alone, it felt like that: life or death.

He knew it was ridiculous to get worked up like he was. Sam, he was sure, was fine. But he still couldn't shake the feeling. He had to be realistic with himself. As long as Sam was battling a weak, rapidly thinning heart, then that feeling would never vanish. One tiny push and Sam was over the edge of the cliff. He hadn't a single clue of what to do. Following guidelines only went so far. If Sam weren't fully cured by the end of it all, then they all would be standing at the edge of the precipice.

Dean had to admit the change was unsettling. He still had yet for the permanent setup and medical crisis to wrap around his head. Sooner or later he may need to acquire a job. Bobby' s main business only helped so much. He really didn't like that one bit. Staying in one spot, taking on bills, a possible mortgage? Man, that's gonna suck. But he had to have some way to pay off future medical bills that was promised to come.

What he wouldn't trade to go back to their old lives? …Well, okay, all except for the Impala. Back to the old days where it was nothing but a road trip, taking care of the bad guys, and the occasional night out with a saucy senorita on holidays. He was going to miss it, no doubt. But as it was instilled in his heart and sanity a long time ago, family comes first. Sammy had to get better first before he would even contemplate another hunt. And God knows what they would do if that fugly yellow-eyed bastard showed up.

Don't get him started with that dude. He had enough on his plate to worry about.

Blowing out a hot breath, he checked his watch again. Sam was gone for an hour, like he promised Bobby earlier to give him. The kid had yet to make an appearance. The powerful vortex was swirling again, and Dean fought to remain calm. He shook his head. If this what he was like after one week, what was it going to be like in a few months?

"I'm gonna give you a few more minutes and then I'm looking for ya Sammy," he said out loud.

A full minute had passed. His time was up. "Okay, time to go." He got up and headed for the truck. Sam was given enough time to walk.

…

Sam had been running for a good fifteen minutes. Sprinting had long run out of gas, and now he only had fuel left for a fast run. Air burned ceaselessly down his throat, his lungs on fire. The flux of adrenaline rushed faster, the roar in his ears educing his legs to speed faster. At that moment, there was not a care in the world. His spirit was running free again, escaping past his body's manacles. He never wanted to go back.

He took a turn down a dirt road. This road too was long and vast, having no end in sight. Boundless fields of high grasses stood on each side, long overdue for a mow; the sun now tall in the sky, hovered down over him like an unneeded nosy supervisor. Large hiccups shot up from his chest, his heart thumping wildly behind its ribbed prison. His legs ached mercilessly, but he kept up his pace.

Sam could feel the breathlessness and the lightheadedness begin to wash over him. They were creeping over him as though draping a black cloth over his head, but he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes in concentration. He wouldn't let them take him hostage. If they did, then he would lose the fight. And he couldn't do that—he wouldn't.

His head became real heavy, his hands numb from being clenched so tightly. Sharp amounting pain washed through his chest, catching his breath. His pace eased off to a fast walk. No longer was the air cool and wonderful; now it was sultry and thick, hard to pull in. The lightheadedness invaded with a vengeance, and his heart expanded painfully, feeling like the alien bursting out of the human host's chest.

Sam really wished he hadn't seen that movie at that point. It hadn't helped matters.

His left foot snagged on his right and he tripped. His vision swam, the ground blurring. It didn't take a genius. He had pushed himself far past his limit, and now this was the consequence. Inhaling a staggering breath, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping harshly. He clasped his eyes shut, concentrating on slowing his breathing down. It felt like his entire insides were still sprinting, the pressure and pain accumulating to what was sure to implode. Was spontaneous combustion ever proven? Because if it wasn't, he was about to prove it.

He fell onto his side, having lost the feeling in his arms, the tough grasses lodged tenderly into his temples. His chest continued to pulsate sporadically. At that moment, he wished he wasn't alone. Now he wanted his crazy, overbearing brother more than ever. If he died right then and there, Dean would be with him.

Sam closed his eyes and soon went still.

The wind howled. The grasses whirred swaying with the wind, and the afternoon crickets begun their afternoon symphony. The hourglass broke, time irrelevant now. The bobsled race was put on hold for his mind soon was at ease.

Something coughed. Or rather his mind might have been too far in idle repose in that he thought he heard something cough.

It coughed again. Only now louder and longer, but it didn't sound anything animal-like. It drew closer, reverberating loud over the grasslands. Then a loud _CLANK_ sounded. Nope, definitely nothing mammalian.

The noise drew nearer. The _clanks_ were closely followed by _clangs_ now. It was something metallic, a machine maybe. Oh God, not the freakin' _terminator_. He so wasn't in the mood for movie do-overs.

The ground now began to shake beneath his body at the approaching machine. Why he couldn't differentiate what it was annoyed him? The clinks and clangs suddenly turned into sputtering and the lightbulb over Sam's head lit up.

It was Dean and the truck.

The sputtering was now too hard to miss. Sam opened his eyes to slits and saw the dark boxed outline of Bobby's truck, large dust-ridden plumes billowing high behind it. He smiled. His brother had found him.

The truck came to a sliding stop amongst the sandy gravel. Dean's concerned yell echoed across the small prairie as he exited. Sam soon peered up into his brother's worried face, emitting a small cough. "Glad you can make it Dean." His small quip went unheeded. Several frightening emotions all flashed across his brother's face like one effed up emotional kaleidoscope, and Sam knew he was in for it.

"Oh shit Sammy, what the hell? Did you have another attack? Should I call an ambulance? I told you not to go by yourself. What the hell were you thinking? Can you get up? I'm calling Bobby. Shit, I knew this would happen. What am I going to do now?" he was out of control with his blustering. Sam had to squeeze his eyes shut against the mile-a-minute speech pattern.

Sam raised a hand, stopping Dean's spasmodic chant. "Dude, I'm okay. Just overdid it, is all."

Dean exhaled forcibly, his left twitching. "Overdid it? That's an understatement. You passed out again Sam. Are you okay?"

Smiling, Sam laggardly sat up with Dean's help. "I'm fine, really. I think I can go dancing right now." Yeah right, he wasn't about to tell his brother he went for a run.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped irritably, pulling Sam to his feet and dusting him off. Sam's legs were still numb and a stumbling mess, he held onto his brother tightly. Dean led him to the car, stowing him comfortably in the passenger seat. Hopping in, Dean pointed a sharp finger. "Next time, just humor me and have one of us around, okay?"

Sam didn't answer. He wasn't going to be watched every second of the day, heart problems or no.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just got tired and laid down, that's all. Let's go home," Sam mumbled.

…

Back at Singer Ranch, Sam slowly emerged from the truck, staggering up and into the house. His back ached, his chest he didn't want to talk about, and his legs were still thawing from the numbness. Though paying the price for the run now, he absolutely refused to regret it. If he had the chance to run like that again, he will.

Dean was hot on his heels as he made his way towards the stairs. As expected Dean hounded him good throughout the long trip, which traveling back in the truck took a long twenty minutes. That was a hell of a distance he traveled. He almost would have been proud if it weren't for the agonizing sharp shooting pains in his lungs. Dean made it clear to take it easy, first by taking a nap when they arrived back at the house.

Not taking no for an answer, Dean stayed behind him. He took the stairs one at a time, clinging onto the railing tightly. Heading upwards was a lot more difficult than he foresaw. It took all his reserved energy and most of his breath away. Maybe that run wasn't such a good idea now. Any second he was going to be sick.

Sluggishly his feet took each step. After a while, he lost count the number of steps. It couldn't have been that many; he should have been at the top by now. Opening his eyes, he swore he had another heart attack. He was only on the sixth step. Sixth! Six out of the thirteen. _Good grief!_ What was wrong with him? Okay, yeah, that was a rhetorical question. But still, six?

Suddenly Sam felt faint. There wasn't any fight left in him. His eyes rolled up and he fell backwards.

"Whoa!" Dean exclaimed grabbing a hold of his sibling who unanticipatedly made a backward swan dive. "Easy there buddy. I gotcha. Come on, let's getcha upstairs and into bed," he wrapped an arm around his sibling's waist and partly carried him the rest of the way to his bedroom, sitting him down on the bed.

Sam appeared downright exhausted in toeing off his tennis shoes. Dean pulled the blankets up for him as he saw Sam had no energy left to do it himself. "Here, tuck in."

"I can do it," Sam grumbled.

"I know. I know," Dean carelessly patronized. "Why don't we talk to Bobby about you setting up shop downstairs? It'll be less of a hassle than trying to get up these creaky old steps everyday." His brother eyed him incredulously. "At least until you get your strength back."

Sam glowered at him. "Don't do that. Don't limit me. I can do this."

"I know you can Sammy," Dean was quick to pacify, aiming to curb the oncoming freight train that was Sam's wrath. "But I'm not talking about a permanent fix here. I'm just saying for right now so you don't push yourself. You're—"

"I'm what?" Sam was irate. "I'm too weak? Too fragile? Too much in a delicate condition?"

"Yes Sam you are." Dean was also quick to the point. "Right now you are. I don't like it anymore than you do. In fact, I'm downright terrified that this can get worse real soon. The doctor made it very clear that you have a sure chance that it might." Sam went quiet, his fatigued eyes falling onto his comforter.

Dean took a deep breath. "Now I'm not saying that we're a hundred percent positive on this. But we're being cautious. We have a long road ahead of us. Don't shorten the trip man. For now, just take it easy. You have to cuz…" For a second, it looked as though he choked on his own words.

"Cuz what?" Sam whispered.

His brother took another long deep breath, licking his lips. Which only meant it was hard for him to say what was on his mind. Dean looked to him with a reassuring brotherly expression Sam seldom ever saw. "You have to, because I can't lose you too. Dad's death is still killing me. And uh, I…I wouldn't know what to do if something happened to you."

Sam just stared. He was too stunned for words; the air was beaten out of him—and not because of his constant breathlessness. His mouth hung open, speechless. What do you say to that?

An extra layer of moisture coated Dean's eyes. He rubbed his mouth first before patting Sam's knee in assurance. "Please…just…get some sleep, alright? That's all I ask." And he got up and left, leaving Sam to his trepid thoughts.

**See, nothing much happening in this chappie…just an FYI session and a couple of chick-flick moments. Can you believe it? I actually did one of those. Dean's out to shoot me now, I'm sure. Anyway, the next installment of the Sammy's ill adventures will continue shortly. Stay tuned. I do have a nasty little segment coming up. ;p**


	11. Drowning

**Sorry for the wait on this. This chapter and the next were real tricky. At first I had a plan for the direction of this story, then I changed my mind…and then I went back. Then all of a sudden there became a freaking tug-a-war in my head. I couldn't decide… So for now I decided to stick with the original outline, because the victor of that tug of war gave me a neat idea in how to end this story. And maaaannnnn, you guys are going to kill me! Nuff said! Enjoy!**

**Chapter Ten:**

**Drowning**

_Singer's Humble Abode, Sioux County: three months earlier_

It was three a.m. when Dean was woken by a noise coming from his brother's room. He was up from the bed in two seconds, out the door in one. The sound of struggles for air was almost too difficult to misinterpret.

"BOBBY!" he called only once, the loud echo rattling the walls with its intensity.

He barged through the closed door, the latch splintering off the doorjam. Sam was on his side, grabbing at the sheets. The rest of his body twitched and scrambled, his feet becoming tangled within his blankets. Dean raced towards the bed. Sam's mouth was wide open, the look of terror in his eyes growing wilder the longer his struggles for air increased. He was in the midst of another attack.

Dean's hand dove for the designated oxygen mask on the lampside table. Yanking the cord out, he pressed the button off the top of the small aluminum tank and forced the mask over his brother's mouth. Sam's head jerked away, his body convulsing at the lack of air. Dean forcefully grabbed the back of his head and pulled him back into the mask. He hated to be tough, but it wasn't like he had time to coax his little brother into calming.

Sam continued to struggle. His chest heaved strongly, having the appearance of a large hum-vac filling up and deflating. Dean clenched his teeth. Sam's grip around his wrist tightened, any more and there were sure to be broken bones. But Dean breathed through it, cupping Sam's head back still keeping the mask on securely.

"It's okay Sammy. Concentrate like you did before. It'll pass," he encouraged. The panic in Sam's eyes refused to let up. His hard pants and coughs fogged up the little green plastic. "Easy there kiddo. Just like last time, focus."

Heavy footfalls bounded up the stairs and Dean knew Bobby had joined in the fiesta. Sure enough the rugged hunter flew in through the door as though he had wings. "What's happening?"

"He's having another attack," Dean was quick to answer.

"Another one?"

"Yeah. Can you help his feet? That cocoon he's made is just making things worse," he was breathless and his ears hurt. The desperate pants soon turned into harsh hacks, the sound loud and grating.

Dean now had Sam on his side, the lean and skeletal back pinned up against his chest. Sam's legs continued to twitch and squirm. Bobby, as was asked, had untangled the blankets and so his feet were free, shifting madly across the large Queen.

Bobby turned to Dean. "Should we place in a call?"

"No. It'll pass. We have to be patient." There was a small quiver to Dean's voice. Out of experience, he knew these things to pass, much like an asthma attack. However, the knowledge didn't lessen the anxiety or fear these attacks produced.

The first time Sam undergone this sudden fit, it had Dean scared shitless. As Sam was now, he fought to breathe, his body in full spasms, his reflection the color of blank paper. In full panic mode, Dean and Bobby called Nine-One-One. The doctor at the local hospital in Sioux called it a "paroxysmal nocturnal dyspnea" or "cardiac asthma". He explained that it was a sudden nighttime attack of severe breathlessness and that it was common to occur after a few hours of sleep. To Dean's dismay, he also informed him that it was rare in DCM patients and its occurrence couldn't have meant anything good.

The asthma had happened twice after that. Luckily the local doctor had supplied them with a portable oxygen tank, so if it were to ever occur again, the available oxygen would help. It was just a matter of getting through to Sam. Dean's own heart could barely take it. He disliked watching from the sidelines his little brother go through so much pain and effort. It was killing him.

Soon Sam's breathing began to ease out. His body had gone lax and limp, having fallen back into the deep stages of repose. The attack was over. Dean remained keeping Sam held tight against him. He hadn't a clue if it helped his brother in knowing that he was close by, but it certainly had him at peace in keeping Sam close.

Not another word was spoken between the two conscious men. Dean gave the nod to his old friend that he would take it from here. He watched solemnly as Bobby came around and draped the three or so blankets around he and his brother. One of the side effects of Sam's medicine was that he was in a continual state of chills. Two comforters and a topsheet hardly did the job.

A few minutes after Bobby had left for the night, Dean felt it was time to remove the mask. Sam hadn't stirred a bit while he placed the icky device back in its spot. The attack had wiped him out, like most other physical activities now-a-days. It unnerved him how incredibly fragile his brother's body became. Sam could barely pick up a book now without having to catch his breath.

Dean checked his watch and saw that it was near four a.m. He had to leave for work in a couple of hours. His lip snarled in dismay. At a time like this, he'd much rather be at home than slaving away on the new housing development. It was going to take any and all patience and energy he could muster to trudge through the day.

Sam shuddered beside him and he pulled the blankets up over the scrawny shoulders. He would have to place a call to the library later and explain that Sam wouldn't be able to make it. The last dyspnea attack left him physically and mentally drained for most part of the day. Luckily the gals at the local book palace were aware of his ongoing medical condition and so had Charlie, the bookchecker in the back, to cover for him.

Dean had to suppress a smile. He knew those middle-aged cougars would be disappointed. At the end of day when he'd pick Sam up, he'd see all three ladies fawning in the window, waving erratically and making long faces as he left. Lord knows, all he'd be hearing after that phonecall would be a endless supply of 'hope he feels better', 'bless his dear little heart, we'll send over a batch', or 'have him call us'. His brother, for sure, was a chick magnet—besides being a magnet for other things.

Hunting so wasn't on his mind right then. Several times friends from the past had called and nominated a few hunts they needed help on. And several times he had to fight tooth and nail to say no. Sure he somewhat liked the normal apple-pie life, but he couldn't deny he was going stir-crazy. Sam had given the a-okay that he should get out and try, but he instantly battened down that suggestion. Sam was growing weaker by every day. If he had gone out into a hunt and it went awry, or worse, had followed him home, they all would be in danger. He had to explain to Sam that it just wasn't worth the risk.

Surprisingly Sam hadn't disagreed. Possibly in that he, too, was aware of his deteriorating condition. There were times where he'd be ghostly pale, almost translucent, his lips bloodless. Other times he'd be extremely lethargic, hardly able to move long distances. He could barely exercise anymore.

Since that day when Dean found him on the side of the road, Sam wasn't allowed to go anywhere unattended. And so he opted to tag along with him, supervising Sam's exercise level. It had been going well until the last month. Sam swore up and down he hadn't felt any different. The doctors through their testing hadn't mentioned any substantial changes—but Dean could feel it in his heart that it was getting worse.

How could anyone else miss the other symptoms? The constant muscle aches. The headaches. The dizziness. The doctors had to increase his dosage, and had to change to at least three different ACE inhibitors—which for one of them Sam had taken a nasty reaction to. It had him hovering the commode all night.

And the other symptom. That Dean could have done without. Encountering that was so vivid in his mind; it was like it was branded, staying right in place as a constant reminder of this ongoing nightmare.

_Sam had been quiet for a long, long time. Dean had called for him at the bottom of the stairs several times, but had received no answer. Concerned, he darted into the room to find his brother curled on his side wrapped tightly in the mounds of blankets. His concern escalated past the point of panic. Sam was in a worrying state of shivers. His eyes stared absent-mindedly ahead. Dean waved his hand across but received no acknowledgment—not even a blink. _

_Bobby had followed him up shortly. Dean turned to his mentor. "Do we have any heating blankets?"_

"_Uh sure," Bobby answered traipsing off out the door. Soon the geezer came back in carrying two musty yellow devices. Dean placed one at Sam's feet, whilst Bobby tucked the other in around his abdomen. Dean hadn't an iota how old the blankets were, but he acquired an idea when loud ticking sounded as the bags powered up. _

_As the heat increased, so did the smell. The two men resorted to waving tiny car-fresheners in the shape of trees, holding their noses. It smelt odd like heated cat piss. Dean only wondered how Sam was faring with the stench. His brother remained oblivious, and it only upped his worry. _

_Soon the edges of the shakes wore off and Sam's body appeared to have settled down. Dean took a seat on the side of the bed. He placed a hand on his brother's forehead, and jerked back at how frigid it felt. He closed his eyes in despair. It was a full day later of pacing and biting fingernails before Sam finally opened his eyes. _

Perhaps he was just being paranoid? Maybe with this type of illness, these things had to be common, expected. However he couldn't deny that something execrable was festering in his brother's body—like a parasite worming around and infecting its host—and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Sure Sam was maintaining a good defense, but for how long?

Ugh, he wanted to scream. Confusion was never something he endured with a shy smile. Hopefully in the morning Sam will wake and feel anew. He thought about that and scoffed. Yeah, hope wasn't a friendly playmate either. He had to be realistic, remember.

Soon the time came around and he had to leave for work. Slowly lowering his ill brother back to the bedspread, he made him comfortable, brushing the long sticky locks out of his face. Afterwards Dean placed a hand on his chest, feeling the irregular beat of his heart.

"You keep working, you hear? Don't you give up. Not now," he ordered in a soft whisper. Disheartened, Dean left the room. He wasn't ready for more of the fight. In his heart, he felt deeply that it was a losing battle. And for the first time ever, he prayed for a miracle.

**Shortest chapter yet, I think. Sorry about that. The next one will most definitely be longer…and like the last one will be a slight downer…but hopefully with an entertaining twist. Hope you liked the limpSam in this. Tootles!**


	12. One Man's Dream

**Hey Ya'll. Gear up for this chapter, it's a downer. Title came from none other than _Yanni_, hee hee hee…..what? Tell ya what, I don't care how old he is, that is one sexy Greek!**

**Chapter Eleven:**

**One Man's Dream**

Even though it felt real, Sam knew he was having a dream…and he loved it.

The hammock's sturdy fishnet cords fit comfortably around his large, lanky body, making soft squeaks as it rocked. Lying, enjoying the flash of sunlight, he flipped to the next page of his current read, _The Great Gatsby_. It was another one of those marvels he could never put down; even if it had been the fifty-seventh time he read it. He loved becoming lost in the world of Nick and Gatsby's friendship, the post war era, and the brewing conflicts that led to Gatsby's untimely death.

It was such a great time to read. Too bad it was all a dream.

Finishing the novel, Sam tenderly placed it down, glancing up and admiring the tall exotic palm trees, hearing their large and thatch-like leaves buzz and whir in the soft wind. It was almost like it was paradise. The creases of his lips curved and he rose off the hammock heading towards the isle of marble white sand and the unfathomable expansion of sea.

Cool marshy sand sunk beneath his feet as he walked, the soft gritty particles filling the creases in between his toes. The surf swept over the long stretch of beach bespattering the bottom of his legs in a thicket of white foam. For sure this was a dream. Only that night he remembered falling asleep on Bobby's couch. They couldn't have traveled overnight to the coast that quickly.

Whatever! He could here forever. Here, he was at peace. He was not ailing, coughing, stumbling, or fainting. He could take a walk down a long sandy beach without so much as a hiccup. Here, in his dreams, he was himself again.

A black cat ran past and he eyed it with intrigue, squinting in the blinding sunlight. The cat ran up a little ways and stopped, glancing back. Sam bucked back a bit in revulsion at its appearance. It was missing an eye. Rigid black and red scabbing surrounded the outer edges of its oculus, its other eye large and bright, a small twinkle born in the sterling amber.

Sam eyed it some more. Its tail was bent at an awkward angle—definitely broken, its back leg favoring. The poor thing was injured. Sam wondered about how it became hurt, but more importantly was curious as to why an injured animal was stalking his dreams.

The cat continued on with its wayward travels. Sam shook his head and carried on down the beach. Most of the time, he never questioned what happened in his dreams. It wasn't worth asking.

A little ways ahead, two great black blobs stood out on the wide empty beach, shadowed by a tall flamboyantly pink Umbrella. Logic pointed that it was his brother and Bobby. Several sets of beer cans and bottles surrounded their lawn chairs, followed by three sets of carry coolers, and of course, Dean's sawed-off. Who else would it be?

Bobby was fast asleep, snoring, with his hands folded beneath his head, a large patch of sunblock taking up the entirety of his nose. Despite being at the beach, Bobby was still adorned in his jeans, ragged vest, flannel undershirt, and grungy ballcap. Sam emitted a small chuckle. He could never see the man in anything else.

Sam headed across the two towards his seat eying his brother's current choice of wearing a bucket hat with intrigue. Beer in one hand, a set of binoculars in the other, Dean continued to stare out amongst the waves, a small shy grin settling his features. He was enjoying something. Dean took a long sip from the chilled can, afterwards letting out a long rumbling trademark belch. Sam couldn't stifle his laughter. Even in his dreams, his brother never changed.

He took a seat in the small neon-green plastic chair set to the side, where he instantly dug his toes into the hot sand. It felt almost too surreal, too intangible to be. The warmth immediately took away the chill in his freezing feet. He let out a large exhale of relief. He never wanted to go back, never wanted to wake up. He could spend eternity here.

The cat limped on by again.

Sam shook his head again in annoyance. Well, it would be eternal bliss without the friggin' creepy cat.

He let out another long sigh. "I could get used to this, you know? Forget going back. I think I'll just stay right here."

His brother hiccupped beside him, dropping the empty can, digging in the little blue cooler for the next one. It was though he hadn't heard him. Sam leaned in and spoke a little more clearly, "Dean? Did you hear me? I said I could get used to this."

Still no response. "Dean?"

Dean shrugged, opening the can one-handed. "Yeah, I heard ya. You'll have to tell me all about it. Well, that is if Heaven is like this. But something tells me, it isn't. All well."

That struck up a certain cloud of puzzlement. Sam gazed at his brother inquiringly. "Huh?"

"You heard me," Dean returned his gaze.

"Yeah, I heard you. But why would you say it?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He replied. Sam continued to stare at him questioningly. Dean smiled again. "You're going to die Sammy."

A dark ominous presence shadowed Sam's mind, his soul at that comment. His face instantly fell, replaced by a look of both hurt and shock. "What?"

Dean gave a small haughty laugh. "Oh come on! Don't act so shocked. You know that's going to happen. Hell, everybody knows it. Might as well face the facts there kid."

Sam's eyes instantly widened and he wondered if he was speaking to his brother, if this was his brother at all. His breathing quickened, his emotions becoming unstable. "Why the hell would you say that? For months, we've done nothing but fight this. For months, you've done nothing but push…"

"…And do you really think that's going to make a difference?" Dean interrupted, still with that irritating smile. Sam wanted to smack the darn thing right off. "Oh suck it up sport. In the end, we all die. So don't take it so personal. You haven't been such a complete waste of space. I got a vacation. So needed it after having to take care of your worthless ass, chasing after your demon. I'll be glad for the break."

"Go to Hell." Sam was seething, his body shaking.

"All in good time Sammy. I'll be right behind ya." Dean took another long pull from the beer, his face disappearing entirely behind the large brewsky.

Still fuming over his brother's hurtful words, Sam stood up and walked away. If that was how his brother felt, then he'll just leave. He turned around to say something, anything, but his brother's wretched smile took away any motive for word making. Sam continued on, stomping away in the hot sand. Was this still a dream? It didn't seem so surreal now.

He hadn't made it a few yards when the cat leapt into his line of sight again. For a moment, all he could think to do was glare, send silent threats towards it. It remained in its spot, its tiny black nose twitching. The large amber eye never blinked once, and Sam pondered only briefly if it was attempting to give him a message, a signal perhaps? Why else would it keep popping up?

"What do you want?" He asked it.

The cat's eye grew larger and it veered to the right heading straight for a clump of trees Sam hadn't noticed. Nervously glancing from side to side, Sam shrugged. "Okay?" Usually he was tentative about following strange things, but this time, something tingled in his bones, leaving an insatiable itch that he couldn't scratch, and it only spurred him into pursue.

The small timberland was just that: small. Strolling past maybe a few cedars and pines grouped together and he was through, trailing the gimpy cat into a… cemetery? Instead of the heartwarming sunshine, the cool breeze, now there was an eerie chill striking his heart, producing a shiver down his spine. The place was grand, hundreds of smoky slabs of different shapes and sizes littered the yard as far as his eyes could see. The ground was ashen at his feet, as though flaunting the way he felt.

Gimp—a.k.a. the One-Eyed Cat—slithered gracefully through the various tombstones. Sam upped his pace to follow it. Soon Gimp came to a grave on the outskirts of the funerary grounds. It turned around and waited for him to catch up. Sam slowly treaded to the spot, more cautious than curious. He had an inkling as to what he was about to see and dreaded it.

Gimp's stare intensified as he came to a standstill at the gravesite. A small tremble bore into his hand, becoming stronger as he finally set his gaze upon the chipped pepper colored slab. It had his name on it. In big, bold, capital, engraved letters, the full name of _Sam Winchester_ stretched across the tall rectangle. His breath caught in his chest and his heart beat sorely. Gimp ran its body against his leg, but he couldn't feel it. He was so numb; the air so tight, his lungs were like stone. What was this?

Dean was right. He was going to die. This can't be a dream…this…this had to be a premonition. He hadn't had one of those in months and it terrified him to think he might be having one now.

Sheer icy terror ripped through his core and he staggered back a step.

Rustling occurred behind him. The freezing horror amounting in his gut tripled, his stomach becoming one big frozen block. Slowly inching around, Sam's mouth fell agape in terror, his trembling hazardous. It was tall, towering over him, its face completely hidden from view. The figure swathed fully in black ragged drapes stretched a long skeletal hand towards him. The air became hotter, thick. He tried to move, to breathe, to think, but his body refused to give into his any of his demands.

The call of a crow sounded and Death laughed. It took the sound of thousands of buzzing wasps, irritating and spine-chilling. Sam tried to speak, but his tongue was swollen. His step faltered back, his foot coming down on a twig. A loud resonating crack echoed throughout the boneyard. Death shuddered at the sound and with lightning fast agility, the spiny hand shot forward, penetrating straight into his chest cavity, bone grating against bone, and pulled his heart out. The shriveled, purple mass of muscle beat within its claws a few times before ultimately darkening to a black shade of ash, no longer pumping.

Sam fell onto his knees, grappling at the burning gaping hole, the sharp bony edges of his ribs poking into his hands. Eyes wide, blood running cold, Sam fell onto his side, the last of his vision fading into a world of black.

_It was all a dream._

…

_Sioux County: one month and three weeks ago._

A firm, but gentle hand shook his shoulder. It ached at the touch and Sam woke with a startled gasp, finding a pair of determined, sullen eyes staring down at him. "Sammy, wake up. We gotta get going."

"Wha…what?" His speech slurred, the vestiges of sleep still holding him hostage. He blinked back the heavy haze and saw it was his brother.

"It's nearly noon," Dean said to him softly, "we need to shag ass if we're gonna make your next appointment by two-thirty."

Sam nodded briefly, rubbing his eyes. He let out a long sigh. "Oh…okay. I'm u-up," he coughed. "Imma going."

"You okay?"

"Yea…yea," he huffed, stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position. "Just a bad dream, is all."

"Oh really? What is it this time: clowns or midgets?" Dean guffawed caustically with a wide grin. Sam chuckled tiredly waving his hand, dismissing the answer. "Good. Now get your shoes on and let's go." His brother walked away, taking a bite of the piece of toast in his hand.

Sam shakily reached for his shoes, a little oppressed by the fact his pale white hand glowed like a fluorescent tube against the dark hardwood. Coughing some more, the burn in his chest slowing his movements, he pulled on his shoes, not even bothering to tie the knots. He was too tired to do the task. Hell, it was even a wonder if he could lift himself off the couch.

Pulling in a large breath, Sam pushed off the seat rising to his full height. And once more the sudden effect of a heavy weight hovered over his eyes, sending his world into darkness; an impregnable cloud descended upon his mind and he went numb…feeling nothing but the weightless movement of falling.

…

Dean was over the counter pouring another strong cup of Joe when he heard a loud thunderous crash sound. The pot fell from his grasp onto the laminate counter with a piercing "chink" and he took off helter-skelter towards Bobby's computer room. Sam was on his back, unmoving. The oak coffee table lay smashed to pieces beneath him, shards of glass littered around his shoulders and back. Dean instantly raced to his side.

Bobby came running in from the outside, skidding to a halt in front of them. Dean needn't have said anything and the old man was helping the young man lift the youngest unconscious Winchester up and back onto the couch.

Bobby set his gaze upon Dean. "Did he have another fainting spell?"

"My money's on yes. Had to have roadrunnered off the couch too fast." The barely audible whisper escaped past Dean's lips. He shook Sam's shoulder, gently patting his cheek. "Sammy? Sammy, come on. Wake up," he turned back to Bobby, "Could you get a towel? I think he cut the back of his head."

"Yea sure," Bobby strolled away. He came back a second later with a rag and Dean instantly applied it, rubbing away the small bloody trickle. Sam hissed, his eyes inactively fluttering open. At first he appeared confused, disoriented. He stared at the two men for the longest time before finally the small twinkle of realization flourished in the dull greens.

Sam groaned. "Ugh…wha…happened?"

"Ya had another spell," Dean passively informed him, wiping away the rest of the bloody residue.

Sam's cringe of pain briefly turned into a cringe of embarrassment before settling on irritation. "I'm…" he coughed, "getting…t-tired of t-this."

"Yeah, I hear ya buddy." Dean was tired of it too. "Hopefully the doc will have something good to say. Come on. Do you think you can walk?"

He took his brother's hand at the affirming nod, and along with Bobby's support, helped move his brother to the tiny Cavalier Bobby had recently rented. The Impala had been fixed and working for almost two months now, but just the night prior a strange "clanking" occurred in the motor, and Dean was adamant that he sought and fixed the problem before they took her on the long trek to Adena. Dean nearly was in jitters to get to the clinic. Maybe…just maybe the docs would have something good to say. Lord knows he needed some good news.

…

The road before them passed as though it were a conveyor belt. Nothing but the same black mottled tarmac, the similar yellow and white fields, and the same blinding sun stretched out as far as his far-sighted vision could process. The little five-speed zoomed on by eating up the miles, heading closer to the clinic. Dean cracked his neck. It's only been an hour and a half and he was stiff. That wasn't a good sign…especially since he was used to driving sixteen-hour days non-stop without so much as a sore ass.

Soft grunts sounded on the passenger side. Dean sent a cursory glance at his brother, smiling a bit at the spasmic twitches and the scrunched facial features. Sammy was coming back to the land of the living. His eyes finally came to a slow open, the dark greens shining like undiscovered emeralds against the dark smudges beneath.

"Hey, hey Sammy! How're ya feeling dude? That bump the size of Nebraska on the back of your head any better?" Dean asked exuberantly. All he received was a long heavy sigh. Guess that was good enough.

"Are we almost there?" Sam asked tiredly.

"Yeah. We have another twenty or so miles to go."

"Good." Sam went quiet for all of a good two minutes before donning on the infamous Sammy look of depression. It only meant that his mind was encumbered by guilt or something really challenging.

"You okay?" Dean eyed him worriedly from the corner of his eye.

Sam rolled his head to the side sucking in a deep breath. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do ya…um…" Sam cleared his throat. "I have to ask you…uh…I don't know how to put this."

"What Sammy?"

The downtrodden look deepened. "Uh…have you ever wanted to get out…as in get away from me?"

"What?" That question took Dean by the balls so quick; he had to make an abrupt steer to avoid an oncoming guardrail. He peered at his brother with an intense stare of inquisition. "Why would you ask that Sammy?"

Sam dodged the question with, "You can go if you want. You don't have to stay with me because you feel obligated to. I'll be okay."

Dean laughed. He didn't know where this out-of-the-blue confrontation came from and quite frankly he found it a bit ridiculous. "Sam. I assure you I'm here because I want to be," he licked his lips, thinking how best to address this situation. "I mean, yeah I can go. I can leave, sure. But not until you're one-hundred percent."

"Still," Sam gasped, "A little part of you doesn't want to go back? Do something else instead of looking after me?"

"Saaammm," Dean whined. "We've talked about this. What's going on in that freaky head of yours, bud?" He became slightly suspicious. "Did Bobby say something to you?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "No, I'm just…just wondering. I just…" he sighed. "I had a dream and in it you said some things…that you know…it just…made me wonder."

"You had a dream about me?" Dean feigned a grimace of shock.

Sam softly chuckled. "No you jerk. Not of you, but you were in it."

"And I said to you I didn't want to be around you?"

His brother hesitated before giving a short little nod. "Yeah."

Dean huffed. "Well that's super. Okay, let's get something straight here. For one, dreams are a part of your subconscious. If that's what you're thinking, you got it wrong. And two, I can't believe that you dreamt that I was an asshole. Come on!"

"I didn't mean to."

The small whine forced out a laugh. "Yeah, I know," Dean chortled. "But erm, no. I said I was going to stay and take care of you. It' s my job. It's a part of me, and I'm going to do it, because that's what family does."

Sam went real quiet, his eyes shining brighter as Dean gave his little spiel.

"I mean, yeah I miss our old life, sure, but…truth be told, it's not that bad. It surprises me to no end that I'm actually kind of enjoying this," he gazed sternly at his little brother, "I'm not enjoying seeing you suffer, though."

The once bright smile on the kid's face faltered into a sagged frown.

"But don't worry Sammy. Even if it kills me, we're going to get through this. It's going to get better."

"And what if it doesn't?"

"Don't think that. Having those kinds of doubts, that's the first step towards failure. And you're not a quitter. This here," he placed a palm over Sam's chest, feeling the hard thump thrum beneath his fingertips, "will keep on fighting. So don't you give up on it, m'kay?"

The sagged frown lightened, but Dean could still see the tiny shreds of fear and doubt in his brother's eyes. He just prayed that what he had relayed not only enforced more hope in his brother to fight, but also that karma wasn't such a behemoth bitch to steal that instilled hope away. How could you break a heart that's already broken?

…

"What's the verdict doc?" Sam's voice was full of agitated nervousness. His legs bounced anxiously off the examination chair. The present doctor's look of remorse had them bounce faster.

Doctor Pressle, a short middle-aged man with brunette docked hair and large round glasses, pulled up a chair and opened his file. He hadn't answered Sam's question right away, which worried him. It had him regret telling his brother to wait outside.

"Sam…uh," Pressle was off to a rough start. Sam's hands began to quiver. "It's not good Sam."

If it were at all possible Sam swore an anchor dropped down through his throat and plummeted into his gut. He really wanted his brother now. "Um…okay," his voice shook, "Like how bad?"

"Bad enough to where I recommend you become admitted right away."

"_What?_" The anvil shattered, its tiny particles piercing his insides. "What do you mean admitted? For how long?"

"Sam, your heart is weakening by the minute. It's giving up, son. At this stage, I'd say you're going to need to look for a donor. I already went ahead and put your name on the list."

Sam's breath hitched. Giving up? What was his brother going to say? His heart almost stopped just thinking about Dean. "No…it…no," he was speechless. The shock pulsed through his head making him dizzy. "We've come this far. Everything was fine."

Pressle nodded sympathetically. "I know that, and I'm sorry. I'm beginning to hear "rales" or "crackles" in your lungs. It sometimes sounds like metal grating upon metal. That's one of the first signs of left-sided heart failure, which is the first stage before it develops into the right side of your heart. At that point, there is no hope for sustaining. At that point, there' s no other choice but transplant."

"There's nothing we can do. No new medicine. Breathing technique, something?" Sam was almost floating in a storm of panic.

The doctor shook his head. "It's all here Sam," he raised the folder, "The ultrasound, the chest x-ray, the "stress" test, your sudden nighttime attacks, the fatigue, they all confirm it. I wish I have better news, I do. You've done well so far, but the damage was just too extensive. It would have come to this anyway."

Hot sticky tears fell to the brim of Sam's lids. The room suddenly felt stifling, he needed some air. "Well thanks doc, um…" he blew out an exasperated breath. What was he going to say to his brother? "Um…"

Pressle stood up, still eyeing him with consolation. "I recommend staying up at Chrysler. Bresley will be your attending physician. He's one of the best. And with his guidance, there might be a chance of a better outcome. But I just don't know yet. I'm sorry Sam."

Completely consumed in distress, Sam simply waved a goodbye and left out the door. He hadn't bothered checking in with the receptionist for the bill. He wasn't in the mood. Out in the lobby Dean waited for him, trapped under a Hot Rod magazine. Sam stopped and gazed at him sadly, fighting hard to conceal his devastation.

Dean finally glanced up from the pages and caught his look. Instantly Sam saw the flash of concern. "Sammy?" Sam at that moment couldn't handle hearing the disappointment. He couldn't handle seeing his brother's anguish. He merely strode onward towards the cherry-red cavalier.

It was a snug fit, now that he was more awake upon hopping in. He basically had to crawl into the cramped space of the car, the tiny box not suitable for his long frame. He couldn't believe this was the only car left available at the rent-a-car in Sioux. Bobby picked a great day to need his truck. He sure missed the Impala, especially at a time like this.

The door to the clinic opened and out emerged his brother, puzzled and worried. His hands involuntarily began to twist and turn, intertwining with one and another fretfully, a nervous habit since childhood. He could look at nothing else but them. It was too painful. His brother opened the driver side door and he choked back a sob. The dreaded time for the truth had come and he wasn't at all prepared for it.

Dean luckily had resumed his designated seat. The troubled set of eyes fell upon him, but no words were uttered for those eyes spoke volumes. Sam blinked back the tears. His voice caught, his hands still a mess. This was much harder than he anticipated.

Eying the car stereo, Sam whispered, "It's happening Dean. It's final."

Instantly all that could be heard was the sound of Dean's intakes of air. "What…uh…what exactly did the doc say?"

"T-that I f-finally have it. He says I need a donor now." No matter how hard Sam tried, he couldn't keep the fear out of his voice. "He says I need to be admitted. I need to go back up to Chrysler. Dean, he already put my name on the list." And that did it. He suddenly became a broken faucet. The tears spilled down his cheeks without any hope of a tamponade.

"S-sammy, it's o-okay." Dean had tears of his own. He pulled Sam into a hard embrace, rubbing the back of his head. "It's going to be okay."

Sam certainly wasn't in the mood for false reassurances. "No, it's not okay. It's not. It's bad. I can't…" he cried into Dean's broad shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm just…I'm just a little scared right now."

"Nonononono, it's alright to be scared. Hell, I'm terrified. And I mean it's going to be okay, because we're going to do whatever it takes to survive this," he pulled back and stared Sam squarely in the eye, "Even if it means finding some other power. We know stuff supernaturally. We can use that to our advantage."

Sam's initial fear suddenly tripled lendied down a black hole. He was astounded that his brother would even consider such options. "No, don't even think about it."

"Sam, there may not be any other choice."

"No Dean," Sam refused to agree. "You know better than anybody what happens if we meddle with that crap. It always comes back and roasts us over a spit. We're not taking any chances. You said that. So if we're going to get through this, we're going to do it the right way."

Dean's composure wavered. "Sammy—"

"No!" Sam glared. "You better promise me that you won't even think about it. You won't look for some un-godly way if this thing goes south. Promise me." With that look of murder he was sending, there was no chance he was taking no for an answer.

He could tell he was affecting Dean just by the several huffs and indignant glances. "Dean, do it. Promise me that you won't take that route."

Dean finally turned to look at him and he stared at him hard. He made that patented fallen-under-Sammy's spell huff and gave a curt "yeah, whatever."

"That's not good enough Dean."

The stare hardened. "Fine. I promise Sam that I won't do anything stupid…and that I won't try to pull you back by any supernatural means. You happy?"

Sam also gave out his own-patented huff. "No, not by a long shot. But I'm satisfied. And thanks. It means a lot."

"But you better promise me something Sammy. You better go down swinging. Throw every punch and kick you got, you do not stop fighting. No matter how hard it gets. I won't give up my promise that I'll be with you every step of the way. But just don't let me down."

Sam gave a feeble smile. "I won't, and I promise Dean," he laughed. "I don't think I've ever been this scared. I'd much rather take on a shapeshifter right now."

"Yeah, one that's not wearing my face," Dean quipped, laughing at Sam's chuckle. "Alright, let's go home. We'll talk to Bobby and try to figure this thing out. And if that means we have to go to the next state over, then we go."

"Okay, let's go home," Sam agreed. Expelling out a heated breath, he looked out the window and his heart jolted painfully. What he saw tripled the staggering fear to the point where he wanted to scream.

It was Gimp, the one-eyed cat. Seated next to a tall ball-shaped hedge by the clinic's door, it stared, the large amber shining with delight.

**Uh oh…that can't be good…or is it? Yeah, told ya this chapter was a real downer, and now Sammy's dream-like figments are stalking him. Wonder if Death and his skirt is just around the corner. …..**

**And to ritsam, yep that fainting moment earlier was just for you honey. Hope you liked it! ;)**

**Anyway, sorry for the bad news. It had to come eventually. Besides, needed a tender brother moment. But don't let that get you down. I have something fun planned for the next chapter. That'll be up shortly! Take care!**


	13. The Adventures of Milo and Otis

**Well now, I must warn you that I went on a bit of a whim for this chapter, and that I'm veering away from the drama and angst for a little bit. This is based on an actual event that had happened to me just the other day. Seriously it's all true, cuz it's too stupid to make up! Hopefully you'll like it! **

**Chapter Twelve:**

**The Adventures of Milo and Otis**

Stunned, and far more curious than scared, Sam exited out of the tiny car before Dean could put it into gear. The cat was as plain as day, still vividly staring, as he cautiously approached. Stopping at the curb, Sam refused to edge any closer, fearing that what he was seeing might actually have been real. He stared at it. The car stared back, squaring off in one effed up staring contest.

"What are you?" Sam whispered, his heart fluttering wildly, the butterflies in his gut flapping around.

There was the sound of a car door being shut and the loud crunch of gravel. His brother idly met up with him. "What is it?" he looked to the source of Sam's worry, "Oh, it's just a kitty. Ugh…poor kitty. I feel for ya Pal." He leaned closer, extending out a hand, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."

"I've seen this cat before Dean," Sam said in a shaky breath. "In my dream."

That scored his brother's attention causing him to freeze in place. Dean looked back with that freaked look Sam hated so much. "Huh?"

"Yea…same eye, same broken tail, the whole nine. It's the same cat."

"Aww, so you're like a little Freddy Kruger, now aren't cha?" Dean went to stroke the cat's fur. The cat never flinched. His fingers glided gracefully down the slick black coat. "Just as ugly too."

Sam scowled. "Shut up Dean. You're not helping," he glanced back at the feline. "I wonder if it's an omen or something."

"Can't be Sam. Omens are usually flashes, like spirits, sometimes fetches."

"Well how do you know it's not?"

Dean stared back at him with that equally frustrating peculiar glance…it was as though he was amazed that he didn't know all about omens. Well, once upon a time ago he did, but thanks to his lovely illness, he lost a bit of mental capacity, unfortunately. "Because I'm petting it Sam. It's real."

"Then what…" Sam was beginning to get agitated.

"Hey. Calm down. Okay? You need to keep calm," Dean ordered from the ground. "So you're telling me this cat"—he pointed to Gimp—"was in your dream?" He suddenly appeared startled. "You weren't having a vision, were you? Sam, what exactly happened in that dream?"

Sam shook his head. He had already gone over the implications of what his recent nightmare might have suggested. "No, it couldn't be a vision. I haven't had one of those since before Dad died. And besides, I don't have visions of me dying…" He bit his lip. He hadn't meant to go that far and judging from his brother's bloodless features, he had said a little more than he should have.

"No. That's not happening," Dean stood to his full height, pursing his lips in that no-matter-what-I'm-going-to-take-care-of-it kind of way. "We've stopped visions from coming true before and we're going to do it again this time." He stomped his way back over to the car, slamming the door shut with enough force, the entire vehicle rocked.

The current angsty rendition educed a long sigh on Sam's part. Listless, he sat down on the curb, allowing his brother a few minutes to cool off. From the way Dean spat out his last sentence, yeah, he needed all the time he could get.

Sam closed his eyes briefly, taking in the tangy scent of mulch and pine. A lot was on his mind and he needed some form of outlet.

_Meeeooowwww!_

At the feel of something light and stiff brush against him, Sam peered down into Gimp's one eye, caught between a violent need to get away, or stay and become socially acquainted with the cat that stalked his dreams.

Gimp hopped in his lap and began to rub all over his chest in affection. Sam was taken a back. He wanted to pick the cat up and haul ass, but he hardly had energy to do so. Tentatively he snaked his fingers all over the black coat. It was soft and not gnarly, sticky, and filled with fleas as he had imagined. Gimp purred and meowed lovingly and Sam couldn't help but smile.

"I think you like that," he said to it as Gimp settled on his knees, curling his head into the bony caps. Sam let out a small chuckle. Despite all the horrid deformities that would make it a great candidate in a monster movie, it was sort of cute.

A tiny rustling along with another 'meow' occurred in the bush from directly behind. Sam peeked over his shoulder and saw another cat emerge from the dark gloomy depths. With striking lima bean colored eyes, large satellite ears, lion-like paws, along with a long lanky shorthaired body, but with a large bushy tail, it was the most disproportionate thing he had ever seen in his life. It sauntered up and also brushed against his side, seeking love and devotion. Sam couldn't help but to oblige.

He paused a little later and eyed the two animals with intrigue. They both were unique, acting different than any other streetcat. In a way these felines were weird, having no real place to fit in with the rest of the cat species…outcasts…like him. He knew he was being a bit dramatic…but sometimes he couldn't help but feel out of place.

"Hey guys. We're three parts of a whole. That's pretty sad if you think about it," Sam laughed. He glanced over at the car and saw that Dean had started it, and was waiting. He huffed gently pulling the two lovey dovey kitties off. "Okay little guys. I gotta go. Hell hath no fury like my brother dear when he waits."

He went back over to the car and opened the passenger door. But before he could do a circus freak's contortion to get into the car, the two cats were back, sliding their silky bodies against his legs. "Go guys," he shooed them away. The cats remained gazing up at him longingly, purring happily.

A sudden marshmallow feel sprouted in his dying heart, and he found it very hard to leave the two behind. It'd be like leaving behind two starving kids. _Feed the starving children_, a thought popped in his head. His usually soft caring nature sprung up, motivating his actions of picking the cats up and bringing them to the back seat. He didn't care what his brother thought, nor how it looked like. He couldn't leave these cats behind to possibly become roadkill or worse left to a miserable human's mercy.

Immediately he took out his phone and called the main operator. He loved pressing the _zero_ button. Acquiring directions had for some reason always excited him. A minute later the operator had supplied him with the directions to the nearest shelter. Placing the bushy tailed cat in the backseat, but keeping Gimp with him, he settled in shotgun, smirking at Dean's incredulous expression.

"There are two of em' now?"

"Yep. The other little guy just popped out of the blue."

Dean's forced smile intensified and Sam could easily tell Dean was pondering if he was losing his sanity as well. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the cat sniffing the backseat, getting a feel for the carpet upholstery. "Oh, that's nice. What are they doing in the car, Sam?"

"We're taking them to a local shelter," Sam replied casually, petting Gimp on the head. "I wasn't going to let them stay out there. They might get hurt."

Dean's stare grew all the more larger. "Don't think that's really going to matter there bud. Can't break em' much more, I don't think. And that one"—he looked again in the rearview mirror—"ugh…what is that? A gremlin?"

"Dean, don't be mean," Sam chastised. "There's a shelter not far up the road from here. So let's just go, so we can get home."

"I don't want them in the car," Dean grumbled.

"Oh get over it. Just make a right and head straight."

…

About ten minutes into the journey, Sam casually examined the cat in his lap, carefully palpating the broken leg. The cat continued to lie comfortably without so much as a twitch. _Hmmm_, Sam thought, _must've been broken before and healed awkwardly_. A spasm of sympathy rippled through him. He knew all too well about those kind of injuries. Poor Gimp.

Another spasm hit. Gimp is a rather harsh name for a lame animal. He raised Gimp to eye-level. "You need a different name. If anything…hmmm…I think you should be called…Ivan," he paused, thinking about his choice. He nodded, "Yeah, that'll do. Ivan."

"You're naming it now?" Dean asked sarcastically.

"Why not? Can't keep calling it Gimp."

"Sure ya can. I thought you didn't like cats."

"No, I do. Just not our old babysitter Mrs. Flourstein's fifty billion of them. I think I'm still coughing up furballs," Sam joked.

Elated in that one cat had an identity rather than creepy-lame-stalker-cat, Sam turned around and spotted the disproportionate one trying to balance itself on the back seat. "And what should your name be kitty cat? Hmmm, I gotta think about this one dude…wait a minute, Dude? Hmmm, I kinda like that." He faced his brother. "What do you think of the name Dude for a cat?"

Dean eyed him nonchalantly out of the corner of his eye. "I don't really care if you call it Ratbag, RB for short. Why are you naming em'?"

Sam shrugged. "Because I can." Truth was, he loved it. It was taking his mind off of the heart issue. Gimp, now dubbed Ivan, began to use his legs as a scratching post. Hissing, Sam carefully placed him in the back.

Their turn for another long road was coming up. The many surrounding cars began to crowd together as the four-lane road merged into a two-lane. Dean shifted the car back down to fourth and began to apply the brakes…pausing when he heard a strange low noise.

_Raaaaaaahhhhhhhh._

Confused, Dean looked around, wondering if he had simply misheard something. He pressed on the brakes again.

_Raaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh._

The noise grew longer and in scale. "What the hell is that?" Dean was slightly freaked. He peered down at pedals and saw a pair of liquidy neon green eyes staring at him from under the brake pedal. "Hey! Get out from under there," he gently shifted his foot to move the cat out.

He wasn't prepared _at all_ for what came next.

Dude, aka the bushy-tailed fucker, leapt up from between his legs and latched onto his chest, spinning on its axis and forcing a whole wad of gnarly hair into his mouth. He coughed and sputtered, the nasty hairs sticking to his tongue.

"Dude!" Sam jeered, tugging the cat off his brother. He was careful with his touch, the cat remaining firm in his place. It annoyed Dean to no end and he ended up forcefully prying the claws out of his flannel, picking the cat up by the scruff of its neck and tossing it over his shoulder, accidentally spilling him on top of Ivan.

Suddenly the sound of howls and screeches and much like that of two cats squabbling occurred in the back seat. And next Dude's head popped out in between the driver door and Dean's seat, its features wild with fear and panic.

**RAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**

"Jesus Christ!" Dean hollered, startled at the flailing animal. Dude tried to pull itself through but was stuck on the seatbelt pulley. Dean grabbed a hold of its asymmetric head and tugged, but alas, the cat was stuck.

"Ivan, no!" Sam called out, reaching behind the seat. Ivan continued his assault on poor lopsided Dude. Nothing but the sound of the cat's panicked catcalls and Dean's grunts of effort reverberated throughout the car's interior. "Come on you stupid piece of…ugh..." He continued to tug.

Having no luck in pulling the cat away, Sam slipped through in between the two fronts seats, angling his body in a way where his head was near the floorboard. The maneuver ached, his head turning hot and crimson from the strain. However with enough strength, he pulled the one-eyed gimp off the flailing escapee. Ivan, miffed, scrambled his way out of Sam's clutches, and surprisingly for a lame cat, leapt into the back window. Sam squirmed, attempting to pull himself up, but the angle he was down proved to be quite difficult.

With luck, and certainly not with grace, Dean finally managed to pull Dude out and place him into his lap, where he began to pat it reassuringly. "It's okay now buddy. Ivan the Terrible has backed off. It's okay." He looked up. His eyes instantly sprung from their sockets in alarm at the oncoming river of stopped cars. "WHOA!"

He slammed both feet with all the strength he had into the clutch and brake pedals, the car screeching from the sustained momentum.

The consequential force from the abrupt motion caused two things to happen. Firstly, Sam felt himself become wedged in deeper between the seats, his head having a date with the plastic floormat, and secondly, Ivan was sent air-born. The kitty's flying lesson ended with him careening into the windshield, whereby in a fit of disorientation began to race back and forth across the dashboard.

Dude, at the sight of Ivan, screeched in fear and sprung from Dean's lap, landing on Sam's hip, sinking his claws through the fabric of his jeans and into the soft flesh. Sam squeaked, rotating his hips. Dude hung on for dear life, its ears pinned back and eyes wide with concentration.

The traffic began to move. Dean, having no other choice, put the car into gear. The cat continued to shuttle across, blocking his line of sight. Once Ivan had come back and was now in front of the steering wheel, Dean lunged for it. Grappling the cat by the back of its neck, he pulled, but Ivan sunk his claws into the beige plastic and wouldn't let go. Dean tugged several times, the cat's body jerking strongly with the movement. With a growl of animosity, he yanked one last time. The cat pulled away with bits of chipped plastic stuck in between its claws.

Dean scowled angrily and brought it to eye-level. He shook it in punishment. "Now you listen to me you piece of—" A car honked.

Both Dean and Ivan turned their head to the source, a silver Izuzu Rodeo. A woman and a young girl both stared wide-eyed through the window, mouths agape, obviously in horror at seeing him nearly strangle a cat. Dean smiled and nodded sheepishly, slowly lowering Ivan to the passenger seat.

He forgot Dude was right there balancing on his brother's hip.

_Reeegh! _The two cat's howled, irately swiping at one another, resulting in Dude flying up to the top of the passenger seat, balancing precariously with the car's movement. Ivan squirmed out of Dean's grip and proceeded to hop back on the dashboard. Dean, cursing up a storm, grabbed a hold of the cat again and pinned it against Sam's hip.

The traffic began to slow down again, presenting the problem that he needed to use the stick. He sent Ivan one non-sympathetic look. And with the cat still in hand, he began to shift the car into third, then fourth, and finally into fifth gear, the cat's head going with the motion. All the while Ivan stared back, his one eye clearly obtaining an _are-you-fucking-kidding-me_ expression.

Dean shrugged. "Sorry buddy." Soon the signs for commercialism came into view and Dean searched all over for an animal shelter. But none came within sight. "Damn it. Where the hell is that place? Sammy? What in the hell are you doing? Taking a nap? I need my navigator up here. Hurry up!"

"I would if I could Dean," came the muffled reply. "But I'm kinda stuck."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Come again? What do you mean you're stuck?"

"As in I. Can't. Move!"

Dean huffed irritably. "Oh fuckin-A!"

…

The shelter couldn't have come any sooner. Dean pulled the Cavalier into its shabby parking lot so fast, hot smoke poured from the tires at its breakneck speed. In an even more irritable mood, Dean scowled at his brother, having to exit the vehicle to pry Sam from in between the seats.

Hot, stuffy, and overall exhausted, Sam slowly emerged from the vehicle. Certain disagreeing feelings began to rage within him, as though the tiny voice in the back of his head absolutely was in discordance with his current motive. Dean, still fuming about what had transpired a few minutes ago, settled back in the car. Sam, hesitantly, pulled the two now amiable friends from the backseat, trudging stiffly into the dark holdout for strays.

Upon entering, he was hit with a blast of rank animal odor, and musty puppy liners. Ivan and Dude squirmed uncomfortably in his grasp, but he kept his grip firm. He approached the counter and met a sickly looking peppered-hair woman with a cigarette that Sam swore could've auditioned for the poster of an emaciated tobacco-user. She took a pull from the fiery cancer-stick. Light, dirty smoke rose and curled into the air, partially obscuring her wrinkly face in a haze.

Sam coughed, slightly suffocated. He smiled to his best efforts. The receptionist returned it with an uncaring what-the-hell-do-you-want glance. Sam cleared his throat, choking lightly on the nauseating smell. "Um…h-hi. How are you doing today?"

The woman said nothing, but stared.

"Okay," Sam continued awkwardly. "Well, um, I found these two cats and as a Samaritan are bringing them in. Don't want to see them get hurt."

"I'm sure honey," the receptionist answered in a croaky voice. "Turning them in is a thirty dollar co-pay, and you need to sign for them as well in case their one week is up."

Sam was puzzled. "One week? What do you mean by that?"

The receptionist arched an eyebrow, scowling in irritation. "It's in plain sight on the door as you walk in. Since this place is constantly full, by the end of the week if they're not adopted, then they're gassed. That's the policy."

Sam could feel his heart jolt again. Gassed? As in dead? What the hell kind of place was this? "You're serious? You really kill these animals?"

"Not I. But yes," she smirked wickedly. "Animals are brought in here by the dozens. We need the space."

Sam was slightly repulsed. "That's…just…wrong," he coughed.

"Well if you don't like it, just carry your princess behind, and take them rats with ya!"

"You know, I think I will," Sam replied assertively. He left immediately. "Have a nice day ma'me."

"Sure thing Lurch."

Sam stormed out the door. What was wrong with this place? Put animals down only after a week? That was in every sense of the word, wrong! No way, could he leave these precious –albeit annoying—rugrats to that kind of fate. He shook his head. Not a chance.

Rolling his eyes at his brother's astonished expression, he placed the two kitties in the back. Still he avoided Dean's stare as he crawled into the passenger seat and strapped in.

"Mind explaining to me what the hell they're still doing here?" Dean asked abruptly.

"Eh," he shrugged in reply. "It's a bad place. I wouldn't want to stay here. So let's just go home."

"With the cats?"

Sam nodded innocently.

"Sam, I don't think so."

"And why not?"

Dean gazed at him humbly, taking on that fatherly role. "Because Sam, and I mean this in the best way, we don't know how much longer your heart is going to stay in tact. There might be a point where you're not going to be at home for a while. Who's going to take care of them?"

Sam's face fell at the point made. But he squared his shoulders, ready to stand his ground if need be. "I don't care. I'm not leaving those guys to that kind of fate. You wouldn't do the same thing to me. We'll figure it out. But for now, let's just get home. We still need to tell Bobby."

Now it was Dean's turn to pale. He had totally forgotten about giving the old man, their surrogate father the news. Quickly he turned away from revealing his weakened composure. This just never got any easier.

"We good?"

Dean coughed, biting his lip. "Ye-yea…we're good. I guess it's time to go home. And I guess it's time to start thinking about our next move. Luckily we've got a couple hours to figure out how to break the ice to Bobby."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, cuz we're going to need it." That wonderful smile of his remained plastered over his wan face, his unabashed dimples never losing their strength. He couldn't wait to arrive back at Bobby's house. The image of his bed was all too of a longing sight.

…

That seemingly permanent smile however suddenly switched into a look of horror at the sound of something in the back squirting out of a ketchup bottle. Sam's mouth dropped at the sight of Ivan taking a squat on the back seat.

He turned wide eyes to Dean, who sent a glare of seething. "That better not be what I think it is!"

***Warner Bros Logo—Porky Pig comes out through dark hole* "And *balibbalibbalib* That's All Folks!"**

**And yes, sadly two of my cats' names are Ratbag and Dude…and they're both girls! Blame my dad on that one! And this sequence happened verbatim as I was taking my cats, Dude, Spartacus, Ebby, Finky, and Duddits to the vet. Oy Vey! No animals were harmed during the making of this.**

**And believe it or not, but there are shelters that do have a one-week policy in regards to strays. I know, there's one not too far from my house. Grrr….**

**Anyway, I hope you liked it. Get ready for some angst and suspense come next chapter!**


	14. The Heart of Everything

**Hidy! Well sorry for the wait. Had a lot on my mind this week…Dude was giving me trouble. If you want to see what she looks like, look at my profile page. **** Anyways, warning, a lot of angst up ahead. Title from Within Temptation. Enjoy! **

**Chapter thirteen:**

**The Heart of Everything**

All sense of time had vanished like that of a magic trick; gone, still, everything inert. Sam felt the gnarly hands of despair clench tighter over his frail stature, his soul quivering with fear and nervousness, in fear of rejection. His heart hammered agonizingly inside, forcing him to make slow stilted movements, long and painful breaths. Every fiber of his being wanted to turn away, run, or disappear; Hell, he would in that moment have preferred a do-over of the night he left for Stanford. Anything else was better than taking in the shocked, frozen, horrified look of devastation on his surrogate father's face.

Bobby hadn't moved an inch from the moment Dean relayed the news of Sam's latest doctor appointment. Sam wondered if he had poked the man sharp enough he'd shatter; the former hunter's million or so pieces scattering all over the floor like crumbled marble. Those shiny wizened blue eyes lost all color, his mouth unhinged, the flash of a thousand different emotions all flitting in the man's facial; making it hard to discern which emotion outweighed the other. Sam had to look away; he couldn't bear to have his heart broken any more than it already was.

"Bobby, say something," Dean begged mercifully. From the looks of things, he too was suffering from total shock over the unprecedented setback, but none more so than the shock of Bobby's speechlessness.

Bobby shifted from foot to foot, adjusting the grungy ballcap and straightening the tattered vest. Clearly he was a bit overwhelmed, unable to think, unable to speak. It only strengthened the power to completely disintegrate Sam's resolve, his growing oppression rising to new heights. "I uh…I think I forgot to fix a part on that Ford outside," the old man finally mumbled. "Gotta get it done before old Sheerigan comes back. He's a mean old coot even on his best day."

Dean's eyes developed an extra coat of moisture. "Bobby. Wait," he pleaded, but Bobby ignored it and slowly lumbered on past them towards the kitchen. The back screen door creaked to a body-cringing shut, their mentor's heavy steps pounding down the old porch sending searing jolts through their souls.

Dean turned back to Sam and noted the slow, yet unmistakable sign of acceptance…of giving up. "Don't you do that." He ordered sternly, "Don't you give in. He'll come around. This is just a little too much for him, is all."

His brother's authoritative emphasis was understandable. But no matter how much underlying love and devotion it contained, it couldn't hold against the powering sway that was Sam's depression. Like a shot to the chest, Sam could feel his plastic bubble of a world begin to deflate. His heart was giving up, his family at a loss of what to do, and he was surrounded by a preternatural world that would love to do nothing else but dangle em' up over a pulverizing grinder. Yeah, there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to deal with something like this. Not even the biggest happy pill.

"Sammy?"

Sam gave a tiny shrug. "I'm just uh…I'm just gonna head upstairs." It was all he could think to say. Fatigue had at last won the ongoing wrestling match and he was too tired to even divulge his sensitive nature, especially in how he felt now that Bobby had upped and left.

"Sammy," Dean whined, his expression clearly broken.

"I'll be upstairs," Sam repeated, bending down and collecting the two cats that humbly remained at his side. "Come on guys. Let's go have a lay down."

"Sam, wait." Dean called, but he took no heed in answering. He wasn't much up to trying to console his brother's own personal inner turmoil; he had a set of stairs to climb. Besides he really hadn't wanted to linger on the subject any longer; he already had one thing that was killing him.

…

Every few minutes or so Sam's breath hitched. It wasn't something he was totally unprepared for, but that, however, still hadn't mollified its suddenness. It'd hit, having an impact like that of a thousand wasp stings, briefly creating a spark of fire throughout his throbbing chest. But soon as he regained his equilibrium, the fire died down to a low simmer. Periodically his heart screamed in agony, beseeching, begging to be put down like a suffering dog. Sam knew it was losing the war, the turning point for its victory long ago having passed. It hurt like Hell, but he didn't call for help. This was something he had to fight through alone.

Ivan purred loudly at the thought, shuffling his satiny head into his breastplate. _Okay, well, maybe not totally alone_, he thought.

As though it too could feel Sam's pain, Dude slipped off his shoulder and padded the soft mattress beside him, stretching out the kinks in its lanky body, its back curling in like an inch worm. Sam gently began to rub the underside of the short-haired neck, the cat purring affectionately, enjoying the fingering sensation. Even through the occasional angina and the mind-stroll through _emo_-land, the animal's enjoyment brought a small smile to Sam's lips.

It was well past dark outside, the night reflecting that of a demon's eyes, the only light provided by a tiny lamp on the nightstand. He had no idea how long he had been up in his room. Time elapses rather quickly now-a-days, he thought as he pulled his eyes away from the window. He would never admit this to his brother, but the dark always gave him a small quivering chill.

The crawling chill grew worse as his thoughts wove in on his impending doom. Just the mere thought of riding out the rest of his days in a hospital bed sickened him. All feelings were mutual in being reluctant of going through with it. Hospitals he avoided like the plague. And now to be stricken ill, dying, facing the prospect of being poked and prodded endlessly for days…weeks…months even? Constantly asked how he was feeling, on how or what gave him more discomfort or pain, continually bothered by strangers? Yeah, he'd much rather face on ten battalions of demons. At least that way he went down like a valiant warrior, facing death square in the eye, and outmatching its sinister kooky grin.

Sam knew he wouldn't be alone in the matter. Bobby and Dean had said they'd be there for him for every step of the way, and there was no doubt they would be. But how was that fair? He had already made light of the topic towards his brother and Dean complied, reassuring him that he was there by his side by choice. Sam more than anything didn't want his big brother there constantly worrying about him, knowing what the outcome was going to be. His heart expanded some more, on the verge of explosion, in thinking what Dean was possibly going to go through in dealing with another death. There was no way of knowing how he was going to react. There was already a glimpse from when their father had unexpectedly passed. This time, however, Dean had forewarning.

Sam's breath shuddered, shaking his chest like a freaking baby rattle. He fought ceaselessly to not fall into the swirling cesspool of his emotions, but at this stage in his life, he could care less. This was a lot to sink in: Bobby's initial reaction, his brother's imminent fate, his forthcoming death. Instantly his mind thought of Heaven. He wondered if one such as he was allowed in such a place. Over the many rumors and speculations, it was a wonder if the Holier-than-thou zone with the pearly white gates even existed. He hoped it did. He could just see himself sitting Indian-style on a cloud hovering over the vast sky, looking down below watching and waiting. It even brought a stupid smile to his face.

A hot prickly sensation quickly spread through his ankles. His lips formed a frown as he rubbed away the menacing ache, becoming a little concerned at how swollen the tissue around his appendages were. That must have been the fluid build up again, he surmised, another symptom of his slowly approaching fate. He sighed rather irritated. "I hate this."

There was a small knock at the door. Sam glanced over and to his relief saw it was Dean casually making an entrance. He had with him a soft placating expression, one that Sam never took for granted. Dean stopped just barely over the threshold. "Hey. I just wanted to let you know dinner is ready. But don't get your hopes up. It's only chicken and cob. And maybe if we're lucky Bobby will whip us up some pudding for later. Hmm, love me some pudding."

"Oh. Okay, thanks." Sam softly answered and he went back to simultaneously rubbing Dude's chin and messaging the back of Ivan's ears.

Dean appeared dumbfounded, shifting his weight to one hip. "Uh, it's ready now. You know? Get it while it's nice and hot."

"I will a little later. I'm not hungry right now." It was true. He hadn't had much of an appetite all day…or for the past couple of months actually.

Dean sighed. "Sam, you haven't eaten anything all day. You need to take your medicine and with that comes food. So come on, move your ass." He swung a finger towards the door, making a dog whistle.

Sam wasn't sure if he was more annoyed by the direct order or the shrill whistle. "No."

"Sammy, I'm not kidding," Dean sent one of those authoritative looks Sam only associated with their late father. But since he hadn't fallen for it when John was alive, he wasn't falling for it now.

"Neither am I."

His brother's eyes squinted in confusion. "What's with you tonight? Is it about what happened with Bobby earlier? You know he's sorry."

"It's not about Bobby."

"Then what is it?"

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it. Just…just go get your dinner and I'll be down soon, okay?"

Dean scoffed. "No, it's not okay. I know that look, and what you're doing? You need to stop. You may think it was too little, too late, but it's not." Sam gazed at him incredulously. He never thought Dean would bring _that_ up now. "Dad would be a blazing ball of fury right now if he saw what's become of you. You may think it's over, but it's not. The fight's not over yet—"

"Shut up Dean," Sam quietly interrupted. "Just shut up. I don't want to hear about Dad right now."

"I know you don't. But you need to. Dad raised us to never quit on something. You're not a quitter, so I don't get why you're doing it now." There he went again with the licking of the lips. Sometimes Sam downright hated that little attribute. "I get it. This is too much. Believe it or not, I do feel for ya," he huffed. "But it's all going to change. Once we get to the hospital, it'll be different, okay? It'll get better."

_Bullshit!_ Sam suckled the bottom of his lip, suddenly in a bit of unease. He sat up against the headboard keeping his focus on the cats. With an insecure tone, he said, "Yeah, about that. Um…I'm not going."

Sam didn't look up. He didn't need to, for the picture of his brother's frozen-in-ice expression was all too clear in his mind. The non-existent movement had told him as much. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. I'm not going to the hospital."

"I don't think I heard you—"

"Yes, you did," Sam calmly stated. "So stop trying. I don't want to go. I don't want to spend the rest of my days rotting in a bed."

"It won't be like that."

"Yes it will, and you know it," he looked to Dean finally. His brother was just as he had pictured. "Look, I'm just trying to be realistic. There isn't much hope, and I'm not going to spend every waking moment of the rest of my apathetic life waiting for something that's not going to happen. You know how the whole donor bit goes. So if it's my time, then I'd much rather be here than anywhere else."

"Sam?"

"No, I'm done. I don't want to keep fighting the inevitable anymore. So just leave it be. Let me go in peace."

Dean let out a long, exasperated breath rolling his eyes. "Sammy, okay? Enough is enough. You need to knock this shit off right now. This whole hopeless-I'm-giving-up crap has gone too far. It's annoying, alright? And now I'm sick of your mopey Hemingway emo bullshit. Yeah times are bad. It's real bad. But you know what? The saying still goes. You're no quitter and it's about time you pulled your head out of your ass and get on with it. We don't give up, because that's what we do. We do what we have to do and shut up about it. And if that's how you really feel, then you might as well go start digging your grave outside in the front lawn." He stormed away.

"Where are you going?" Sam called out.

"I've had enough. You want to be a loser, fine! Just leave me out of it!" Dean spat, slamming the door behind him. Sam flinched at the sound, sighing once more in regret. He didn't want to think that there was no other option left but to stay in the hospital and wait for a donor. What if he had gone and time ran out? What if there was a heart available and his body rejected it? There were so many what-if situations it made him develop a shade of green.

Those crippling depressive emotions wormed their way back into his heart and soul. Dean was mad at him again. He hated the feeling, but in a small demented sort of way, he encouraged it. That way if his brother was still a little irate about things, he might possibly become distant, and that would make the parting so much easier. He hated to think of it that way, but sooner or later he was going to cause Dean some more heartache, and that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. Sure it was a bit naïve to think he could spare Dean any grief or pain, but this was his brother. Keeping Dean sane, healthy, and off the bandwagon was a must in Sam's book. He'd die for him if need be.

Keeping the two cuddle-buddies close by, Sam turned on his side and stared at the longs divots in the planked flooring. He let his mind wander, because really? At this present time, anywhere was better than here.

**I know, I know, Sammy was a bit of a downer in this chapter. But depression is a real fickle thing, and it can toy with your mind in so many ways, it's sickening. Trust me, I know the feeling all too well. When you become clinically depressed, you feel real lonely, miserable, fatigued, and non-motivated. You don't find enjoyment in the things you love the most. You feel like your losing your friends, your family for no particular reason, and there is no one to help you but yourself. Other times you give up, having no energy to fight. And it is so hard in pulling yourself out of the gunk. Medicine only helps so far. It's not a great feeling, and poor Sam is unfortunately struggling with it. **

**But no worries, it'll get better. Luckily for me, I did find a way out of the quicksand, and you'll see what brings Sam out of it too! ;)**


	15. Seranata Immortale

**Well, I hope you find this chapter better than the last. Thanks to all of you who reviewed for last chapter. I really took your kind words and advice to heart as you'll see in this chapter. Title from Immediate Music. **

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Seranata Immortale**

Pounding.

That was all he could hear, could feel, or could think about. It was a part of his mind, his body, and his soul…and it sucked.

Immense throbbing pulsed and rang throughout his ear cavities, reminding him of the constant battle raging within his body. He was tired. He was sick. And now was the time to get over it….

Well, maybe later.

It was close to midnight—two minutes to be exact— and Sam still was lying in bed. He didn't want to get up. All motivation to do…well, anything…had long flown out the window, fluttering wildly as if it were a bird wired on too much cocaine. Sam didn't think it was ever going to come back. His fingers fumbled for his blankets, his body shivering, the rhythm adding into the overwhelming pounding rocking wild in his skull. The sound…

_Thump. Thump. Thumpa-thump_.

…echoed continuously, aggravating to the point where it could've competed with the Chinese Water Torture and won.

He sighed, far too tired to move, but far too strung to fall asleep.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

The beat inside his head thrummed faster, and he cringed, on the verge of tears. He wanted it to stop. God, why couldn't it all just stop?

"Knock. Knock," a husky voice called. Sam jerked his attention to the door, his jaw becoming lax at Bobby entering with a small Styrofoam bowl. "Hey kid. Sorry for barging in so late, but I figured I'd bring those mongrels of yours something to eat."

Sam inwardly paled. It had totally slipped his mind that Ivan and Dude might need that little necessity. _Way to go Sport! Nice way of introducing them to domestication!_

The corners of Bobby's mouth creased at Sam's plight. He said nothing, instead pulling the two felines off the bed and setting them by the bowl he placed down by the nightstand, where they instantly began to devour the cheap sustenance particles voraciously.

Bobby stood back and watched, shaking his head. "Did a little shopping in town and that's when it occurred to me that I didn't know what they would like. But I also figured I didn't really care. They get what they get," he smiled. "Got em' a couple of toys too," he reached into the side pocket of his flannel vest and pulled out a plastic bag, taking out a small multi-colored ball with several metallic balls trapped on the inside, along with a rat-looking thing with a bushy tail, dropping the pieces to the floor.

"Thanks Bobby," Sam whispered.

"Sure thing kid," the old man placated, taking a seat. Sam scooted back some to allow his surrogate father more room. "Though I'm not much for the whole animal planet you got going here, but I suppose if you really wanted em', that's why ya got em'."

Sam shrugged. "They help with things. Besides I couldn't leave them at that clinic."

"I know. So? What are their names?"

Sluggishly Sam pointed at the black, lame one. "That's Ivan with the bad eye." Bobby snorted mumbling "clever". "And the gremlin looking one—" he pointed at the bushy dark haired cat—"is Dude."

"Oh," said Bobby. His head cocked to the side, his eyes squinting. "The bushy one you named Dude?"

"Yeah."

"Oh okay. You do know it's a girl right?"

"It is?"

"Yep. Ya see nothing saggin', do ya?"

In spite of the limited lighting, Sam leaned forward focusing his attention. Understanding what Bobby was referring to, he slumped back against his pillow palming a hand over his brow in embarrassment, where he emitted a small sheepish hiccup. "Guess it's Dudette now?"

He sighed, glancing at Bobby somewhat in suspicion. "You didn't come up here just to feed the cats? I assume Dean talked to you?"

"You know what I always have said about 'assume'. It makes an ass out of you and me," came the brusque reply, added in with a little smirk. "But no, you would assume correctly."

"Oh," Sam chuckled. "So he still about to pop off like a cork then?"

"That's an understatement." Bobby coughed, clearing the tickle out of his throat. "Nah, he's just upset—though I don't blame him. Your little acceptance speech I heard about refusing the treatment has well wrapped my head around my ankles too."

Sam's puzzled brow peaked. "You don't consider it as me giving up?"

The older man's shoulders slumped, and he let out a long tired sigh. It was as though he was preparing to give out the Mr.-I'm-old-and-I'm-wise lecture— but hopefully with the benefit of something light and uplifting. "Nah boy, I don't. It's not giving up when you want to die on your own terms. This is one sticky mess we're in—and it's not just you, it's all of us. Sometimes I think we're in so deep, we're not going to be able to pull ourselves out of it."

_Not helping Bobby_, Sam thought grimly to himself.

"But then you guys have been in stickier situations before."

"We were fighting monsters Bobby, not a heart disease," Sam argued.

"Monsters. Disease. What's the difference?" The old man replied, shrugging. "It's still hard, and it's still scary as Hell."

"You can say that again."

Bobby patted Sam's knee reassuringly. "I wanna say your brother is probably more frightened to the dickens than either of us. You know how he is when it comes to your family."

"Our family Bobby, our family," Sam corrected.

"Thanks kid." A glimmer of a tear ghosted in Bobby's eye, but soon it evaporated like air leaving hardly a trace of its existence. "But anyway that boy downstairs is a stubborn idiot sometimes, as are you."

"Is this supposed to be making me feel better?"

Bobby huffed, eying him sarcastically. "Smartass, let me finish," he sighed again. "First off, I need to apologize for walking out on you son."

"Don't worry about it."

"No, hear me out. I still shouldn't have done that. It wasn't fair to you and my old ass deserves to have it kicked. At a time like this, we all need to stick together, not fall apart. So that wasn't right, it probably didn't help with your decision in not going back up state. Dean's real worried about that, you know?"

Sam felt his heart crack more in two. Worrying Dean wasn't part of the agenda. "I don't want him to worry about me. I don't want him to worry about anything. What's the point in that anyway? I'm still going to die. I can't even think about what he's going to go through when it happens, cuz it's inevitable. There isn't anything I can do about it."

"Now boy, you need to stop right there," Bobby spoke sternly. "That's just doubt and fear talking. You love your brother, as do I, and you don't want to cause him any more pain, am I right?"

Sam nodded.

"Well then, what is messing with the inside of that noggin of yours in making you think that it's going to be better for Dean when or if you go? I mean, let's face facts here son. You two were stronger together, the best of the best…together. If you go, your brother will be off all alone. I'll be able to help out but so much, but I'm not as young as you or as strong as you."

"He doesn't have to hunt. He can go off and have some apple-pie life."

"You're right he could," The old man narrowed his gaze, making Sam slightly uncomfortable, "but do you really think that's going to happen anytime soon?"

Whatever inspiration for a good answer just was stomped into the ground, twisted and turned into ashes. It was mind-boggling in the sense that this was far out of his control than he liked. He didn't want to cause Dean suffering, but the truth was, who knew what was to come of Dean's fate, and it terrified him. The words caught in his throat. "I just…I just don't know Bobby. I…uh—"

Luckily Bobby was there to pacify his concern…somewhat.

"It won't be the same without you. It won't. You do realize how important you are to us in this little family, right? Honestly if you really want to stay here, let it come, that's your choice and I'll stand by your decision, your brother too. But I really want you to think on it. You don't have to do anything we want you to; we're not going to force you, no matter how many holes that mountain goat of a brother of yours puts into my walls."

Sam sniffed, the heavy weight of despair coming back in full force. "I don't want to fight no more Bobby, not when I feel deep down that it's not going to matter. I'd rather live the rest of the time I have doing the things I want to do, instead of lying in a bed in some God-awful hospital." He squirmed on the bedspread, focusing his lingering gaze on the nightstand. "Dean should just give up on me right now and leave."

To Sam's surprise, Bobby gave a small chuckle at that statement. "Well kid, I can tell ya one thing. I wouldn't get your hopes up on that. Dean has never _just _given up on you, s'never given up on anything, and I guarantee you he won't be likely to do that in the future. Have I ever told you about the time when you were around five, maybe six or so, and had come down with bacterial meningitis?"

"What?" Sam was astounded. "No."

"Yeah you did. You had contracted it somehow at the playground, or that's what the docs figured. Anyways your daddy had blown through town, dropping you two off at my place for a couple of weeks while he was on the trail of a croccotta. You got real sick…and when I mean sick, it was bad. Touch and go for a while. Meningitis even by today's standards is still lethal to a child." A strange mist soon began to envelope the cool blue eyes, the man's features rigid and pained, as though the brief tale of nostalgia was something he had never wanted to relive.

But no matter how much the wizened hunter tried to conceal the temporary lapse in the stoic emotional wall, Sam caught it. His usual placating nature would have let it go, leave the man in peace and not prod him further for the details, but he was far too curious about this little insight. "How come I don't remember that? How is it that no one had said anything?"

"Hmm, s'probably cuz ya were real young for starters and ya were comatose for a little bit. Nobody said anything because for a brief moment, we really thought we were going to lose you. John had come back once he heard the news, but he didn't stay. Your momma's death was still too fresh for him and he couldn't bear it if he had lost you too."

Sam shrugged. Honestly he didn't expect anything else from his late father. "That's understandable."

"It was, still didn't mean that I didn't pin his ass to the wall and knock some sense into him. But despite my somewhat unorthodox persuasive technique, your daddy left anyways. Eventually he got it together and came back, but at that stage, I had lost a bit of respect for him. But until that time, it was just me and your brother. Dean was nine, I think, maybe ten. And you know what? He never once left your side."

"It doesn't surprise me that he—"

"Seriously," Bobby's steely eyes rested on him. "The docs didn't want him in the same room as you in case it would carry on, but he fought tooth and nail, and no matter what they did, he never left. Dressed up head to toe in, you know, that plastic wrap—looked like a Creighton from an eighties sci-fi movie, I tell ya. The docs didn't have much hope for you, but Dean? That boy never knew when to quit. You know what he kept saying to them each and every time?"

"What?"

Bobby laughed. "I remember like it was yesterday, funny enough for my old ass. He said in that tiny squeaky little voice, "_You don't know my brother mister. He'll wake up. And you wanna know why? Because we have a game of checkers to finish and Sammy can't stand to lose_." And so he stayed. Slept by your side, read to you your favorite book over and over again to where I want to think he memorized the dialogue. And I forget what else he did, but I'm sure he dismantled the entire room out of boredom, but no matter what anyone else thought, he never quit."

Sam stared up at his surrogate father in awe. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, well, it hit everyone hard and no one ever spoke of it. It was that scary. You were so tiny and so weak and vulnerable. Everyone was afraid to touch you, in case you broke. But not your brother, he had faith in you. And something tells me that'll never change."

Sam groaned, emitting a small whine. "I don't know anymore Bobby. I just want all this to end. I want to be myself again, but I know that won't happen."

"Yeah I hear ya kid. After my wife passed, I never thought I'd be the same either…and I haven't. But I make the best out of it, namely because I don't think Karen would have wanted me to end up on the other end of the barrel. Listen kid, nobody can make this choice for you. If you want to stay, that's fine. Dean and I won't like it, but we're not going to pack up and leave like you want us to. We're with each other til the end," he patted his knee again standing up to leave. "I'll let cha stew on that for a bit. It's way past midnight now and way past my bedtime. I'll leave the door cracked so those two verminites can go out. Hopefully they'll find the doggy door in the back…" The cats looked up from their bowl, with a clear 'in-your-dreams' expression. Bobby sneered, "But I'm not that hopeful. Just remember to clean it up!"

Sam laughed. "Will do Bobby. Good night."

For a good moment after the door came to a soft close, all Sam wanted to do was shut out the words Bobby had filled him with. The old man had more or less filled him with doubt…but not of a more floundering doubt in that his problem was beyond help…but doubt in that he was past hopeful. Perhaps there was a chance he could still survive this?

Ugh, he hated the ever-swirling vortex that ran rampant in his mind. He was so confused. He just wanted to run away from it all. All logic pointed that the effort would be futile. But all desire pointed him in the direction where it mostly counted: family.

Sure he could just say "fuck it all" and go out with guns blazing. But what would happen to his family once the final fight had begun. The vortex churned and gurgled faster, leaving him breathless. What should he do? What would his brother do?

He paused on that thought.

What would Dean do?

Pondering more about what his brother would do in that situation, a certain blast from the past memory flashed before his eyes. He was at the gloomy eerie hospital in Nebraska, and the dark-skinned doctor came to him with ill-news regarding his brother's near-brush with death by the 100,000 bolt shiskadaddy stun-gun. Dean's heart had taken a severe beating and the man had only given him a month at most to live. He remember vividly in that time that Dean was willing to accept his fate; he even was willing to give over the rights to his car—whereby he had to take care of it or Dean threatened to haunt his ass.

A small determined smile found its way on Sam's face as he recollected that he, himself, vowed to never stop looking for a way. How he refused to sleep for three days, scouring every source through the internet in searching for a way to save his brother. It was different now that he had forced his brother to promise to not look for supernatural means as he had once done. He still suffered from the guilt of that day when it was concluded that the faith-healer he had found to save Dean actually was trading one life for another.

But nevertheless he refused to let go, refused to give up…much like how Dean was doing now. And yeah, there was a time where he was angry with his brother in how Dean could easily just give up. It was that anger that drove him to continue searching. It was that anger that led him to save his brother.

Sam's eyes popped open. With Dean saved, Sam had never felt better. He was whole again, thankful his brother was still by his side…happy that the person he needed the most during that time had survived. Perhaps that's what Bobby was trying to tell him? He at one time never stopped to help his sibling, so why would they in return, despite his wishes, bail on him? They wouldn't. So how was it that he could expect them to? In a way, it was senile—no offense to Bobby.

Though the bitter feelings of despair and oppression still hung over him like a veil, his legs still cemented in their clutches, a small heart-warming feeling wormed its way through the gunk, and it brought a large clown-like smile to his face. That was his answer, his light at the end of the tunnel, his outlet. He couldn't believe that at last he had found a way, something to hold onto…

His brother's happiness.

The dawning epiphany sparked a great new fervor within him, and it soon lulled him into a deep, pleasant sleep. He hadn't once noticed that the pounding mosh-pit in his skull and heart had completely ceased.

…

The sound of clanging pots and pans went off fishing Sam out of the murky depths of repose. Every so often he'd hear another clang. It was as though someone was sifting through all the iron palates of metal, unable to find that particular one in need. Blinking back the heavy vestiges of wonderful dreamscape, Sam achingly pulled himself up into a sitting position.

The clanging continued, making his head hurt with all the noise, until he heard a very faint "shit!" Sam immediately recognized the usage and the tone. It was his brother who was up and making the racket.

He tensed tentatively for a second. His body had all the will to move, but his mind refused to give into its need. That was until Dean had called out very loud and very rudely, "Bobby, I can't find the eggs. Please tell me while you were out shopping for Doc and Dopey upstairs that you bought another carton. I really don't want to have to find that friggin' rooster outside and give him a sex change. Yeah, now that won't be awkward?"

Judging by the slight hostility presented in that tone, Dean was still a little upset. Who knew how or if he was ever going to cheer up? Especially after Sam's disheartening enlightenment he threw at him the night previous. Sam felt another smidgeon of guilt. What was there that he could do to make his brother happy again?

Then as though Ben Franklin's kite was struck by lightning again, it hit him like a flash. In that moment, all guilt, doubt, and hopelessness dropped off the side of the cliff and he knew what he had to do. Though a part of him wanted to remain stagnant with his decision, there was another part, a stronger part, one that yearned to do the right thing. Throwing the heavy covers off his skinny legs, he hustled out of the room, down the flight of stairs, towards an unsuspecting brother.

Dean never gave up on him whenever he needed it…well, why should he give up on Dean now?

His brother was over by the stove cranking up the heat. Several selections of skillets and pots littered the counters along with a large box of pancake mix. At the approaching footfalls, Dean glanced over his shoulder and gave off a small shrug along with a curt "hey." Due to the slumped shoulders, the disappointed facial expression, and the low passive voice, it was a no-brainer that Dean wasn't ready just yet to deal with his depressive sibling.

But Sam didn't care. He wasn't in the mood to be walking on eggshells either. He came downstairs to do something and by damn he was going to do it.

Luckily his legs were long and within a couple of strides he was across the length of the room. This was it. There was no turning back, no reconsidering later, no second thoughts. He waited for Dean to turn around, and as he did so, Sam pulled his big brother into a big hug.

Dean emitted out a gasped "Whoa!" as the long lanky arms wrapped around his shoulders. Surprise, among other things, clearly marred his handsome features. He paused, glancing left and right, obviously thinking best to come up with a good response. "Good morning."

Sam fought hard in not losing his composure. He hung on tight, absolutely refusing to let go. "I'm sorry."

"Uh huh," said Dean off-handedly, "Uh…for what?"

His strength to uphold his decision resembled more of an anvil teetering on a very thin rope…but he just had to hold to that a little bit longer. "I'll do it. I'll go through with it."

"You mean the hospital? You will?" Yeah, Dean was a bit more than surprised. He was downright flabbergasted.

Sam felt his brother's arms encircle his tender back. It had been a long time since he felt this sort of comfort. He nodded again, sniffing. "I'm sorry."

"Shhh. Shhh. It's okay. You don't have to be sorry, I understand." His brother consoled. "It's going to be okay."

Sam pulled back, wiping the dark circles beneath his eyes. Whatever prowess he had in fighting back his emotions was lost. He gazed deep into Dean's bright green eyes. "I'm not going to lie to you though. It goes against every fiber I've got. I'm not…um…I'm not…um—"

"Here," Dean guided him away from the counter towards the kitchen table. "You look like you're about to keel over any minute. Take a seat, and talk to me." Dean sat down opposite of him and looked deeply into his eyes, obviously wanting to know anything and everything he had on his mind. "Okay, first up, what changed your mind?"

Sam huffed. "That doesn't matter. But…uh…I'm willing to go, to ride it out and hope for the best." Immediately there was a spark of happiness flashing on his brother's face, and Sam wanted it to stay there for however long he could. "But um…I still don't feel good about this. It scares the holy hell out of me, but for you, I'll do it."

"Sammy, I don't want you to do it just for me—"

Sam stiffly raised his hand to quiet him. "Don't. Don't do that. If not for you…or Bobby, then I've got nothing else. You've been there for me a hell of a lot longer than I even know. I think it's time that I return the favor."

The light in Dean's eyes grew ever brighter. The corners of his lips twitched endlessly, trying to curve upward. "Are you absolutely sure?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure, but you better not keep me bored."

"Not a chance there Sammy. Keeping you bored and insane is my sole priority," there he went again with that Cheshire grin. Sam couldn't help but return it with a toothy grin of his own. Maybe…just maybe the smile alone could bring him out of depression's gloomy depths. "You sit tight, and I'll whip us up some breakfast. I've got your happy pills on the counter." He leapt up and went to work, and if ever possible, Sam swore he was dancing. That alone made his decision well justified.

He just prayed it would work out in the end. Because…well, now he had everything to lose.

**Well, now I know to those of you I promised there would be a bit of action and suspense in this chapter…well, I found out I was wrong. But there will be plenty come next chapter, I really do promise this time! I just felt that this was a good point to end this chappie. It won't be long for the next one! Cheers!**


	16. 24 Hours til Doomsday

**Well now, that took a bit longer than I expected. So I hope ya'll forgive me with this chapter…..well, let's hope so. You might not like me by the end of it! **** Chapter title from Future World Music.**

**Chapter Fifteen:**

**24 Hours Til Doomsday**

_Bobby's House: a couple days later:_

Dean's sharp masculine voice rang like _Notre Dame's_ grand churchbells from the downstairs. "Sammy. You ready? Come on! The doc is waiting on us and we have a long way to go. What are you doing up there, primping your hair? You know you can't outdo my looks, so I wouldn't even try."

Sam could hear him plain as day. The overly-exuberant attitude and the sarcastic remarks just kept on coming as though they were on an assembly-line conveyor belt, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Pulling in a large, cedar-scented breath, he took a long glance around his room, absorbing, cramming into his mental log each little nook and cranny, each designer-deficient décor—the drapes, the ruffled bed comforter, the overused stained desk—each minute detail that made the room, in essence, _his_. Once wasn't good enough, and so he took another long gander in appreciation, mostly because he was in total belief that this very well may be the last time he laid eyes on it.

Dean's call reverberated against the walls a second time. Shakily collecting his bag at the foot of the bed, Sam made slow tentative steps out the door. Two sets of eyes followed him longingly on the way out. He patted the two heads and gave a tender smile. "Don't worry about me guys," he said to the cats, "Bobby will take good care of you. Just don't go messing with anything. I hope to see you soon."

Both Ivan and Dude purred affectionately.

"See ya," he replied, strolling carefully down the stairs, his hand clamped tight over the wooden rail. The dizziness began to take precedence again, his hands becoming numb, but he fought to remain level-headed. He at least wanted to make it downstairs.

Over the course of the last two days, his health had taken a major setback—though he hadn't expected anything else. He was far more tired, lethargic, hardly having the energy to even stand, to even breathe. Either Bobby or Dean had to help him with most tasks, even lead him to another room at times. He downright despised being limited and having to be dependent. But as such, he was appreciative of his brother's and Bobby's assistance. His hopes were high at the prospect the humiliation and extreme dependence would be over soon.

At the foot of the stairs, Dean, catching his tired look, gratefully took his bag, whilst Bobby came up and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, taking on most of his weight. He said nothing, but grinned, lying his head down upon the broad vest-clad shoulder and allowed the old man to lead him towards the awaiting Impala. Sam was surprised that Dean was risking his baby's health by taking her out so soon after he had yet to diagnose the peculiar rattle, but deep down he knew that Dean was doing it especially for him, so he remained mute. With Bobby's soft whispers, he glided into shotgun and immediately felt at home. It had been too long since he rode in the leather seats.

Dean stowed his bag in the backseat and climbed in the drivers' seat. Bobby closed the door and leaned into the open window with an all too clear buoyant expression. Sam knew he did it solely to keep his spirits high and in check. "You call the moment you get to Chrysler. Hopefully that new Escalade won't take me too long, and so I'll be up within a couple of days. Stay strong kid. I'm rootin' for ya!"

"Thanks Bobby. I'll see ya around then," Sam whispered. He couldn't find the words or the energy to say much else. What else was there to say, really? His old friend and mentor patted the windowsill and gave a shy nod before striding back into the house. Sam rolled his head along the seat and turned a hopeful, yet unsure gaze to his brother and said, "Alright, let's roll."

"M'kay," Dean put the car into gear. "But first, I gotta head into town and take care of a few things. Gotta do it before I miss my chance."

Sam was baffled. "I don't get it."

"Eh, you'll see."

…

"Are you freaking kidding me?" Sam squalled, in complete shock that of all places his brother would visit at a time like this; it had to be a liquor store. "That's not fair dude."

"Oh yeah!" Dean waggled his eyebrows teasingly, exiting the vehicle with haste. "Just hang tight. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Yeah, which means freaking forever!" Sam's cracked voice called back, so not enthused. "Jerk."

"Heard that, bitch," his brother yelled back before he entered the alcoholic's paradise. However, true to his word, Dean was out in a jiffy (a record of ten minutes) with a small brown bag. He hopped in stowing the presumed bottle of vodka in between the two seats.

Sam's confusion upped a couple of notches. "Only one bottle? I'm surprised you didn't have Jack in there ship you the whole store."

"Haha, can it bitch. It's not for me. We've got two more stops to go, and then we'll be off."

"Okay? And where would they be?"

Dean made no answer, instead concentrated on pulling the car out onto the main road.

"Dean?"

"I told ya, you'll see," came the abrupt response.

Sam sighed, slumping more into his seat. There was a time and a place to uphold his part of the inquisition, but he was far too tired and on edge for that.

A few minutes later, Sam found himself parked in front of the candystore. The bright Sunday-yellow placards with candy sales were all too hard to miss. Sam didn't think he had ever been confused as this before. What in the hell was his brother up to? So many questions filtered through his head, making his inability to come up with a decent answer profound.

That much was apparent when not ten minutes later Dean and three other guys came out of the small shop carrying large cardboard boxes. He and the three scrawny guys each stashed about three or so boxes in the trunk, and a few more in the backseat. Dean had thanked them, handed them the paper bag of liquor, and made his way into the car to an expected pair of curious eyes.

"What are you up to? And what is all that in the boxes?"

Dean flashed one of his best smiles, putting the Impala in reverse. "Those"—he pointed with his thumb to the back—"are our next stop."

"Okay? And where would that be?"

"The orphanage up on Greenwich," he laughed at how fast his little brother's eyebrows shot up his head. "Yeah. I said to myself right after you had told me your original plan of action, just in spite, that if somehow you changed your mind and gave it a chance, that I'd buy half the candystore in town and give it all away for the kiddies. Honestly, I didn't think it'd be that soon you'd change your mind, but I am a man of my word regardless of what those cheerleaders back in high school think, and so last night after dinner I put in some calls. And that's where we're heading now."

After that little spiel, Sam couldn't help but be sentimental. "You're a good man Dean. A bit of a pain sometimes, but truly you're one of the best men I've ever known."

"Oh no, you're not going to get all sappy on me, are ya?"

"Nah," Sam chuckled. "That's reserved for later."

"Oh great," Dean rolled his eyes. "Can't wait."

…

It hadn't taken long before the two Winchesters spotted a long muddy worn pole, and suspended by short rust-ridden chains, its outdated signboard with chipped lettering reading "Sioux County's Ragamuffin's Abode". The sign rocked and squeaked with the draft as they drove by, taking an immediate turn down a long, windy, slightly ominous wooded road. Sam, having never been down this road before, took a quick look around, gazing interestedly out the window at all the scenery. He never once blinked. This too might be the last time he saw the outdoors.

He stole a glimpse towards his brother and noted the fun, eager expression his sibling exhibited. It slighted creeped him out. In a way, it was like Dean actually took pleasure in what he was doing, the bad boy routine done and out, and the Good Samaritan taking over. He didn't know what to think of it.

Sam stretched his arms, where a long chorus of cracks and kinks sounded. "So the orphanage, huh?"

Dean sent a weary glance. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Sam shook his head innocently, "it's just…of all places you'd think of donating charity, an orphanage wouldn't be part of the list I'd guess."

"And why is that?"

"I don't know. I suppose now that I think about it, it's hard not to believe how close we came to being stuck in a place like that, or foster care. There were times where I was sure Dad had gone and kicked the bucket."

"Yeah, me too. Hell, there were times where I was close to calling up one, just to be prepared. But I'm glad that didn't happen. Those places do really give me the creeps. Only expect now…" he trailed off.

"What?"

His brother shrugged, grimacing a tad. "Sticking to the definition of orphans…uh, we are orphans Sam. Mom's dead. Dad's dead. We're all that we've got."

Sam fidgeted. He sure clued in to what Dean had in mind with that statement, but one thing did have him bewildered to what Dean regarded as family. "That's not true," he stated.

"What? How is that not true?"

"We still have Bobby," Sam peered at Dean as though the answer was blatantly obvious, "and he's more like a father to us than Dad ever was."

Dean sighed exasperatedly. "Sam, don't start that. You're right in that Bobby is a father to us. I couldn't ask for anything better. But no disrespect to him, I love the guy and all, but he could never truly be our real father. I mean, Dad did the best he could. Yeah he was a drill sergeant, an ass sometimes, but he still was our dad."

"I know that. But you gotta admit sometimes he wasn't there when we really needed him the most. I understand a little of what he went through, and how hard he tried, I do. But…" he licked his lips, "I just wish things were different. I wish he was alive right now, and we weren't dealing with… I wish that we didn't know about the things we do."

"Me too," Dean huffed, but not out of irritation. "And I'm with ya on how I wish things were different, and that sometimes Dad would've kept his mouth shut!"

Sam turned a quizzical eye on him. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Dean answered gruffly.

A usual reply like that typically meant that Dean knew something, but was either too shamed, or was under orders to not mention. But Sam pressed, "No seriously, like what kind of things would he say? He always did his best to keep me in the dark. What did he say to you?"

Dean remained silent.

The hard stare ahead and the continual silence only added Miracle Grow to Sam's underlying suspicion. "Dean, did he say something to you before he died?" There was still no answer. "Dean?"

"Oh my God." Dean's fun and exuberant expression suddenly turned into a mixture of horror and astonishment. The Impala rounded a bend of trees and Sam saw to his own dread a bright ball of orange light emanating from across the field. He looked closely and saw that it wasn't a ball, but a building on fire. His heart began to race. It was the orphanage. The rectangular building was entirely engulfed in orange and black flames, with not a fire-engine or police unit in sight.

"Step on it," the harsh demand rushed from his lips. He immediately felt the roar of the engine, the Impala heading into star-speed hyper-drive. The Winchesters flew across the field so fast, they would have almost triple-dog dared Clark Kent to do better.

Scores of kids all ran from the building guided by a handful of adults, teachers by the looks of it. Dean yanked on the wheel and the car skidded along its side to a halt just meters from the smoking edifice. Both Sam and Dean hopped out, running to droves of children, cringing at the powerful roaring the waves of flames produced.

"Is this everybody?" Dean yelled over the noise to an older woman. Shrieks and crashes all sounded from the inside along with children's screams.

"No!" cried the old woman. Dark smoky stains littered her clothes; white peppery ashes drifted off patches of her white frizzy hair that stuck out and bobbed along her skull. "No! Oh God. There are those left on the second and third floor. Some of the flooring caved in. They're trapped!"

Sam and Dean glanced up at the tall five-story building, hearing several more screams echo from the inside. Dean turned back to the old woman. "Has someone called Nine-One-One?"

"No, we evacuated as soon as we could. All of our landlines were down, our cells with our bags on the inside. A candle fell on some of the kid's Halloween costumes. The fire had completely taken over most of the room before someone realized it. Oh my God, the children," she bawled at more of the screams.

Dean gave Sam a long look. Sam knew it all too well. His brother only ever donned that stone-like expression when he was about to do something heroically stupid. "Dean," he warned.

"No time, Sammy." He was already running. "You stay here and call the cops. I gotta go get the kids!"

"Dean, NO!" Sam yelled, but it was too late, his brother had disappeared through the dense billowing cloud of smoke. Sam backed up a step or two, the heat searing his skin. Loud crashes sounded, along with impacting explosions. The ground beneath his feet quivered, the building heralding its upcoming death with a resonating whine. It only amplified the fear for his brother. "Dean, you moron!"

Sam quickly hurried to the car where he placed a call to the local police. The operator calmly stated several units were on the way and should arrive in the next ten minutes. His heart sagged with heaviness as the building roared some more. He prayed they would arrive in time.

He placed another call to Bobby. The old man answered casually, "What's up fellas?"

"Bobby, it's Sam. I don't have much time," the words vomited from his mouth at ludicrous speed. "I need your help. We're at the orphanage on Greenwich."

"Greenwich? Shouldn't you be halfway to North Dakota by now?"

"I know, but we're not," Sam gasped exhaustively. "I need you to get here. The building's on fire and Dean ran in to get the other kids."

"Ran in? What is he trying to pull?" Bobby lashed.

"I don't know, but just get here Bobby!"

"I'm on my way!" The phone clicked sending a wave of relieving coolness through Sam's chest. The groups of kids screamed and cried next to the Impala. Sam, working on slowing his breathing, made his way to them and began to gently push them back. "Come on guys. Let's back up, okay? Let's get away from the building," he motioned to the teachers for help. "We need to get as far away from the place as possible."

"SAM!"

Sam whirled around in surprise at the call. Dean hung over the second floor balcony, coughing, his face and clothes completely stained in soot. Sam ran over as fast as he could, sliding amongst the turf, shaking off whatever dizziness that befell him. "I'm here Dean," he croaked.

"Who's coming?" his brother choked.

"All of them. They'll be here in a few minutes!"

"What?" Dean yelled…

**Boom!**

An enormous outward explosion of flames and cement debris jettisoned from overtop of Dean's head. He ducked in time before another plume of black smog drifted out. Sam wove his way around the falling flaming materials. "DEAN! You okay?" his voice was like that of car's honk in a tornado, barely audible over the roaring of the flames.

His brother soon came into view back over the banister. He did some motioning with his hands, and a second later, a series of heads popped up. Dean had found some of the children. They too were colored in black as well, each with frightened milkwhite faces. Dean leaned over. "Sam…" he coughed. "There are still more up on the floor above. The smoke is too much," he hacked up his lung again. Gasping, he yelled, "Where are the cops?"

"They're coming!"

Dean shook his head in dismay. "Not enough time. The place is going down like the Big Bad Wolf is blowing on it!"

"Then," Sam scrounged for ideas, "Then…toss the kids down. I'll catch em'!"

The whites of Dean's eyes glowed prominently against the dark smudges of his skin. "I don't think so! Not in your condition! Get someone else."

Sam growled. "Shove it up your ass Dean. We don't have time to argue and I'm all you've got!"

"Sammy!"

"Do it!"

His brother disappeared behind the balcony. Sam's heart raced faster, his mind spinning with devastating scenarios. He had hoped Dean would take his offer. There wasn't any other choice. The fire was now on the third level, the raging flames pouring out of the blackened windows, purging up and through the spindles of the Victorian-style railings.

"Dean, the kids only have seconds!"

"I'm coming," his brother's stout voice echoed over the fire's flickering. Soon he appeared again pulling a quivering Asian boy around the age of five over the railing. "You're going to be okay. I'm not going to drop you. You're mighty man, really, really brave." He heard Dean coach, obviously attempting to give the boy whatever encouragement he could. Dean let go and the boy then swung, his little hands clasping what looked like Dean's belt tightly.

Sam stood at the ready with his arms wide open. "Alright now let go. I'm gonna catch you and I will not miss. Okay?"

The little boy cried. "No," he screamed. "I can't."

"You have to! You have to or you're going to die." Yeah, that was a little harsh. But there wasn't any time to gently coax the child into dropping twenty or so feet. However, his bit of bluntness seemed to do the trick and the boy released his grip, falling neatly into Sam's arms. Sam stumbled from the impact, the kid's weight taking a number on his strength. But he breathed through it, gently dumping the child in the grass, and waited for the next one.

By the time the last kid dropped and was in safety's reach, the whole back lot was filled with a sea of blue and red lights joined by an entire symphony of sirens and alarms. Sam also heard the rumble of Bobby's Chevelle. He took a seat on the ground, his legs wobbly, and his reserve spent. Glancing up, he saw his brother laying his head on the rail, coughing up a storm.

Sam gasped, pulling in a large breath. "Dean, you need to get out of there."

"I…c-can't Sammy," he faintly heard his brother call back. "I gotta go back in!"

"Dean!" Sam coughed. Large pounding footfalls sounded all around him. He could barely lift his head to see who or what they were. Large yellow and black boots caught in his peripheral vision and he realized they were the firemen anxiously rushing into the House of Hell. Sounds of rushing water set off beside him and he knew at least five or so men started the hoses. Another set of footfalls sounded close by, coming to a stop beside him. Soon a large rounded hand lifted his chin and a pair of concerned blue eyes locked onto his. It was Bobby.

"Bobby." The name barely came out as a mumble.

"Hey kid. Yeah, it's me. Where's Dean?" Bobby's authoritative tone pounded against his eardrums. Sam couldn't help but cringe against the astounding effect his voice had. Instead he lifted a shaking hand towards the burning building, afterward falling into Bobby's embrace. "He's still inside Bobby," he whispered, his eyes half-closing in exhaustion.

"Okay. Okay. Take it easy. He'll be fine," he heard his father's voice start to shake. "These guys will get him. And when you see him, you make sure you stay awake to beat his ass into a pulp. I've got cha!"

Sam took several staggering breaths, his vision wavering. He never before had felt so tired.

Minutes had come and gone, and the two men still sat on the ground, waiting in apprehension for news on the third member of their posse. The fire now had managed to conquer the second floor. No longer were there screams, or cracks, or dynamic blasts…only the sounds of the fire's Hellish laughter, its conceited howls of triumph as it consumed and destroyed the building. Sam held onto Bobby tight. A thousand different spasms each took place in his heart, his mind…his soul. Never before had he endured this much fear and pain for his sibling. The anxiousness was killing him.

A certain squeaking sounded, at first starting out small but soon crescendoing into a loud ear-piercing wailing. The next second an entire wave of glass erupted from all the windows showering everyone standing within twenty feet of the building in shards. Bobby sheltered Sam from most of the tar-stained glass. Uncovering themselves, they each yelled for their compadre, the pervading fear now holding them both hostages.

Another blast of hellfire occurred by the forest-green entrance and next the double doors were kicked open. Sam held his breath in anticipation, in hope. However the hope soon was stabbed with a silver knife at witnessing a fireman exit carrying two seemingly unconscious kids, a little boy and girl. Soon following were the other firefighters with more children in hand, but no Dean. His breathing picked up, those hundred or so desolating scenarios running through his mind again. With Bobby's help, he picked himself off the ground.

The fireman with the first set of kids had set them down with the paramedics on board, while he took a lumbering seat in the grass, catching his breath. Sam stumbled his way over to him, gasping. "Hey. Hey," he called feebly. The man gave him his most uninterested gaze. "My brother…my brother was in there."

"Your brother?" The fireman glanced at his other two teammates. "His brother. He was the guy who found and gave us the kids."

"Well uh…where is he?" Sam's body began to shake as he glanced from all three men.

The guy on the left approached with a look of condolence. "I'm sorry man. But he uh…he fell."

"What…w-what do you mean by that?"

The guy shook his head. "The second floor was weaker than we thought and he fell right through. We tried calling, but there was no answer. I'm sorry, but I don't think he made it."

All the air rushed out of Sam's lungs at that comment and he stumbled back into Bobby's arms. Sam couldn't stop staring at the fireman who narrated his brother's fate, his face marbled in shock. His heart raced faster, his vision swimming. Dean dead? His eyes widened some more as he turned back towards the building. No. No, he couldn't be. Not now. _NO!_

"DEAN!" He yelled long and strong. "DEAN, NOOOOO!" The field of police, firemen, paramedics, and people all paused, looking up afraid at his call of anguish. "Dean!"

"Sam," Bobby sobbed beside him. He tried to pull him away. "Come on son."

"No, no," Sam pried his arm out of the large hands. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't. Dean had made a promise to him. He promised to never leave him, not while they had such a trial up ahead of them. Dean promised!

Terrible, nasty anger suddenly swam through his veins at his brother; a pulsing rage that seemed to sprout out of nowhere, burning, adding fuel to his weakened system. A spark ignited and he clenched his teeth. He had an idea. It was insane, but he instantly knew what had to be done. Something inside, a sixth sense, a psychic connection maybe, told him that what was logical wasn't true. His brother was alive somehow. Trapped. Barely alive, but still breathing.

He began making his way towards the engulfed building. Bobby grappled his arm, but he angrily shook the grasp loose. "Sam, no! It's over. Get back here kid!" The old man hollered behind him, but he ignored it. He took off at a sprint. "SAM!"

"Kid, no!" A firefighter ran after him, soon calling out to his fellow buddies. Sam saw to his right a man at one of the hoses drop the large cylindrical device and proceed to block him. With the insane boiling rampage stampeding throughout his body, Sam knocked the man down with ease in just one swipe of the hand. He didn't stop until he barreled right through the flaming devil's mouth into Hell.

"Dean!" His brother's name barely floated amongst the burning embers around him. Dark, hot, sultry smoke enshrouded everything, cloaking his path and vision in a swirl of darkness. He choked on the air. It wasn't air, just vapor of death. The heat seared and prickled at his skin, the hairs curling and singing off.

Through the heat, through the smoke he ventured forward, taking long strides. The hallway ahead of him was bathed in red flickering flames, some of them crying and whining from the hundreds of degrees' heat.

"Dean," he called a second time, coughing. His vision swam again, forcing his hands to his knees until he could regain his breath. "Dean," he yelled a little louder. Forcing whatever thick sweet oxygen into his lungs, he straightened up and continued his quest for his brother. He padded along the hot floor, waving his arms over his face in shielding against the fire. A lengthy staircase that spiraled up to the upper floors was to the right of him and a set of corridors were to the left. Black unfurling smoke rose expeditiously to the top of the ceiling as he passed.

"Dean, answer me!" He knew it was probably futile in continually calling for his brother, as the noise was so loud, he could barely hear his own voice. Logic pointed in that he should save his breath. His heart thudded painfully behind his ribcage with each step, sending jolts of heavy eye-crossing pain to expand across the length of his chest. But the extraneous rage flowing within him overcompensated the endless pain allowing him to move faster. He had to find his brother. Dean had to live another day so he could kick his ass for trying to break his promise. No way was he getting out of it!

Having no other option, Sam maneuvered swiftly through each corridor to his left. He searched high and low, jumping over many hurtles, climbing through fallen columns and two-by-four wooden panels. Each burned a bright red, glowing with hatred, a hatred matching his own. He had no idea what was happening to him, only that whatever this was supplying the energy, was giving him a way of saving his brother. And that's what he was going to do, even if he went down trying as the building succumbed to its fiery encounter.

"Dean!" He called again, searching fast through open doors, kicking open any that were closed. "Dean, man you better say something right now!" His angry voice bellowed over the static.

A large cracking resonated and Sam jumped back in time for half the above hallway ceiling to collapse in front of him. His breath caught in his chest at the suddenness and he clasped his chest. "Dean, please," he whispered.

Sam stopped; his eyes wide, his ears on high alert. He heard something amidst the sonorous flickering. It was faint, but he was sure it was real: coughing. He heard coughing, somewhere a few yards from him. "Dean! Hang on, I'm coming!" He jumped through more of the slanted panels, pushing against some of tarred, smoldering debris. "Dean!"

He entered through a room, a bedroom by the looks of it. The walls were adorned with pink billowy cloud wallpaper and rainbow colored unicorn posters galore. Many of the furniture, though glowing with wisps of white smoke, were plain, iron, having no sense of style. It would have been nice had most of the upper floor above not fall and plaster half of it in white dust and wood and crumbled cement.

"Dean! Keep coughing Dean. I'll find ya," Sam yelled out loud. More coughing echoed and he learned that it was indeed coming from under the mass. He immediately began moving some of the wooden fragments, frantically picking through the hot pieces that sliced and burned his hands, shoving nasty splinters up through his fingers. He cursed long and loud, pulling at the pieces ceaselessly.

Soon his brother's boot loomed into view. He pulled on the foot, but alas, it remained snug beneath the weight. Sam dug faster, his own efforts causing whatever monstrous energy he had previously to wane. Wretched, painful coughs erupted through his chest and out his throat, pulverizing the back of his tonsils. "Hang on Dean," he wheezed.

The building groaned loudly above him and he worked harder. Dean's face eventually was free of the dust and wood, his brother's eyes closed, and a large splotch of red leaking down the side of his temple. "Dean," Sam patted his cheek. His brother groaned; his eyes weakly fluttering open.

"S'my?" Dean barely gasped.

"Yeah, it's me you jerk," Sam coughed, wiping his brow. "Come on, I'm getting ya out of here."

Dean hadn't replied. Instead, coughing up black sputum, he fell unconscious once more. His chest heaving with the exertion, Sam looked up and saw a beam pinning his brother to the floor. Closing his eyes, with whatever breath he could muster, he placed his back underneath the large column. Concentrating, he began to lift, the weight of the wood heinous, his back feeling like a toothpick under a hundred pound weight. He screamed, using all that he had to heave the beam up and off his big brother. His heart thudded in his ears again, the pain unbearable now. Shaking from exhaustion, Sam placed his foot under Dean's back and rolled him fast out of the way. With his last sustained breath, he dropped the beam where, due to the instability, the rest of the ceiling fell, showering both he and Dean in heavy wood pieces and smoking bits of concrete.

Sam immediately covered his limp sibling. After the rest of the ceiling fell around him, he leapt up to his feet, blinking back the invading dizziness. His head teetered and swayed; the air so incredibly thick, he could barely pull it in. He shook his head several times, clearing his mind and sight. There wasn't much time left. The building was at the end of its life. It was going to fall straight into its casket any minute now.

With strength he never knew he had, Sam easily pulled his brother up and over his shoulders in a firemen's carry. Struggling under the dead weight, Sam moved, not caring for his own health, not stopping. There was only one life that was important to him at the moment and he was going to do all that he had in his power to see to it that his brother survived.

He didn't stop until the sweet, most delicious, crisp and clean air penetrated through the smog clouding in his lungs. He stepped hard and determinedly through the flaming doors. The outside sun hit him, bathing him in a watery warmth, as though dunking his head under pleasuring spa water. The noise of the crowd heightened, and at first he wondered what concert he accidentally crashed. He took a staggering breath, his body singing soprano with aches and pains, his chest acting as though a knife had struck it. However, he didn't allow it to affect him. He didn't stop carrying the weight of his brother until a couple of the paramedics came and gently peeled him off.

With Dean now out and secure, there was no more energy left. No more fight. Sam instantly fell to his knees once his brother was taken away. Bobby slid to the ground next to him and held onto him tight. He hadn't a clue of what the old man was saying. Everything was muddled now, his mind in a fog. He could barely make out Dean strapped down to the gurney in front of him, covered in black soot, wisps of smoke curling off his charred clothes. The EMTs had begun to wheel him away attaching an ambu bag to his face when Sam suddenly felt a nasty searing jolt in his heart.

A cough ripped through his throat adding more sharpness to the flaring pain. His breathing increased and suddenly there was no air. His entire side had gone numb and he felt dizzy, unable to hold on to that control of his senses. Bobby's hold tightened, obviously having felt the shudder his body produced. He gasped, unable to breathe. His hand clasped Bobby's vest in a death-like grip, and he peered on into the old man's eyes frightened.

"B-bobby," his voice quivered. He knew he was having a heart attack. That was a no-brainer. The over-exertion and the inhaling of the smoke were two of the best known triggers. He had no more control. The pain was unmentionable. He couldn't quite explain it, it was so terrible. He fell onto his side, his back arching. "B-bobby, h-help…he-lp…" No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help sounding like he was five years old again, helpless and scared out of his mind.

Bobby's own face multiplied into an expression of both fear and hysterics. "Sammy? Oh my God, Sam!" He turned to the rest of the medical team, "HELP! I NEED HELP!"

Sam continued to struggle for air, but it was of no use. There was no way of stopping his vision from blurring, his mind vanishing to a complete blank. There was no way of keeping his body from succumbing to the heart-stopping pain. His father's horrified voice muffled harshly through his head, but he couldn't understand it. And soon everything had slipped through the agonizing black veil of death, his mind falling through the black abyss, to never see the scores of daylight or his family again.

**Jeez, must I, really? Must I be so cruel?**

**Hmmm, the answer usually is yes! ;) But that's not the end I'm afraid. I know, not what you wanted to hear. But there is more to come. So stay tuned and you shall see what is to be of our young Sammy's fate! Tootles!**


	17. Tourniquet

**Hola again! Here we are for the next installment of the harrowing med adventures of the Winchester duo! Warning: do not kill author. It won't be good, I promise! But I still hope you enjoy. Title from Evanescence. **

**Chapter Sixteen:**

**Tourniquet**

The long heavenly white hallway stretched as far as he could see and in that moment Bobby Singer was finally convinced he was getting old. Long drives and long walks apparently were not part of his forte anymore. His body creaked and groaned, stiff from the abuse of driving the Impala for hours. But it wasn't that he was upset after getting a feel for the old girl, there was a lot on his aging mind: too much for him to fully wrangle a grasp on. The boy limping next to him also gave a testament to that, given the vacant expression and sheer speechlessness.

Having gone through a long and silent excursion with a stunned, injured, and on-edge Winchester was just that: long. There was complete dead air between the two for the entirety of the trip. Bobby couldn't wait to get out of the car. No offense to the Impala, but if he had stayed an hour longer in the stifling vehicle, more than likely he might have died a very horrible and ass-pricking death.

It wasn't the car, nor was it the feeling of walking on eggshells around the Winchester boy. It was the end of the dreaded trip that had Mr. Singer on edge, and in near convulsive fits. A heavy foreboding lay in his old heart, the muscle aching for what he had to do. Although he knew he had to take the lead, aid in somewhat pushing the near-lifeless boy beside him, have the means to do what needed to be done. And that was to finish the journey. It was a great burden on the both of them, but deep down each of them knew they had to do it.

Every step they took was a hard one, each pushing one another to the limit to take it.

Bobby fought like the dickens to not break down in spirit, to not let his body win and run off to a corner and cry. The events over the last few days had his world spiraling out of control. There came a time when he realized that the effort was futile to try and gain back some of its semblance. It all started with the heart-stopping phonecall from Sam alerting him that the local orphanage was set ablaze and that his idgit of a brother had ran in. He might have challenged the Hounds of Hell after that call. Never before had he moved so fast.

The terror hadn't stopped there. Upon arriving to the place, which as Sam described was consumed in total hellfire, he found the boy exhausted beyond relief on the ground. He was lucky to have found Sam keeping it together; however, he found it difficult to keep himself in check as Dean had yet to make an appearance. When at long last the firemen had exited with all the remaining children his breath took a major hit when Dean wasn't among the group. He knew Sam had felt the same thing as the boy immediately tried to stand.

Learning from the firemen what exactly had happened to Dean had Bobby's heart race with guilt and terror. In that very second, he became paralyzed, suddenly thrown in the harrowing devastation a man would go through in losing a son. Sam had screamed beside him, his voice full of disbelief and grief. And for once in Bobby Singer's life, he didn't know what to do. There was no hope to be found, and no one to give it.

No one, except for Sam.

Bobby's heart made another ass-ripping jolt as the boy suddenly morphed before him, a fire unimaginable spreading in those mossy green eyes of his, and before he could comprehend what was that scary-as-Hell thing was that woke up in Sam, the boy was fleeing towards the blazing ball of fury.

The boy was too fast to catch. He called over and over again, rushing after whereby he was pulled back and held down by several officers, but the kid was obstinate to heed his pleas. His mouth dropped in horror, his breath expunged, and his mind went into overkill at seeing his other son run to his death. At that very second, he had lost them both. His body fell ill, all of its strength erasing, and he fell to his knees in bereavement.

Only that feeling vanished the moment Sam in all his heroics lumbered on past through the flaming doors carrying his brother over his shoulders. Bobby's mouth hung open in awe, in astonishment, having never seen the true value of bravery in his life. Sam, covered in black smoky stains, made his way over where a group of paramedics ran over and instantly took his brother off. Bobby couldn't help but remember the amazing elated feeling of relief wash over him. Because of Sam's courage, both of his boys were safe, and alive.

A dark shadow veiled over his features as he kept walking past all the oak doors in the hospital's hallway. The sense of awe, of comfort quickly passed when next Sam fell over with a look of horror and affliction. Bobby had never seen the boy so scared before. It pained him to just think about it. Sam's body went rigid, his back arching, the tension of extreme torment etched over his young face. Bobby closed his eyes in despair at hearing the echo of Sam's voice full of fear calling out his name for help. One look at the kid and Bobby instantly knew Sam was in the midst of cardiac arrest.

_His throat cords were still sore from the loud, roaring he mustered. A few of the EMTs ran over and began to assess the boy. By that point, Sam's eyes were already closed._

_He grabbed the sides of Sam's head and shook it. "Sammy! Sammy! Don't do this kid. Don't do this! Sammy!" He felt strong hands force him back._

"_Back away sir," commanded one of the paramedics, a woman. Bobby sat back paralyzed as she began to recite information into a walkie-talkie clipped to her shoulder. "Unconscious male. Early twenties by the looks of it. Possible burn victim. Need oxygen stat." She observed the boy again. "Copy. Copy. Bring defibrillator stat. Defibrillator now! Victim showing signs of possible v-fib action."_

_Bobby's eyes grew to the size of saucers. He glanced back at the ambulance and saw the tips of Dean's still smoking boots omit from view before the doors were closed and the vehicle was in motion. He turned back to Sam. "Hurry! He's suffering from heart failure! Oh God, my boy needs something now!"_

_The woman looked at him with bright emerald eyes whilst attaching a pressure cuff to Sam's arm. Her pointy face formed a giant O at the mention, her short cropped hair glistening in the firelight. She spoke some more into the radio, enumerating off numbers and other medical bullshit Bobby could quite understand. He read off the paramedic's nametag. "Please Caroline. Save my boy! His brother and I, we can't…"_

"_We'll do all that we can sir. Have faith," she said to him, her voice drifting off like clouds in his ears. Bobby disregarded the reassuring message. He began calling to other paramedics on board. A few ran over with the needed equipment, and immediately began to shred Sam of his top layers, attaching the battery-operated sensors to his pale chest. The tiny pings off the device sounded and Sam's body arched off the sodden ground. _

"_Clear!" Caroline called out and again Sam jerked. _

_They tried for several times after that, and to Bobby's horror, Sam remained the same. _

Down in the hallway, Bobby's feet strode onward non-stop. He looked to the boy beside him and his heart broke at the shocked, bloodless expression that marred Dean's face. It looked as though the boy were a man having been sentenced and was on his way to the gallows. His heart cried. He hadn't even the brightest idea of how Dean was feeling, but he was smart enough to know to not even try to understand. All he could do in that moment was to carry on with his wayward son.

…

Apprehension. Terrible, wretched apprehension; it wormed and slithered through Dean's veins like icy night-crawlers, sending un-abating chills through his spine as the sojourn down the long perpetual hallway proceeded. His footsteps echoed loudly amongst the empty walls, each pound in tune with the agonizing dread pulsing through his heart. It hurt so bad, all he wanted to do was shrivel up and die.

Any minute Dean felt like he was about ready to puke. Several flashes of his brother's body, ashen, lifeless, a distant ghostly image of Sam's once former self floated all around in the murky pool of his thoughts. He could think of no other. The metallic plaque spelling out the words "Morgue" glimmered teasingly at the end of the hallway. His heart hammered painfully, dislodging his breath; the mere sight of the sign producing another tight abominable shiver up through his back.

He didn't think it would ever be this hard. The last time he had felt this certain type of misery was at the time his father unexpectedly passed. Surely-Dean thought to himself- he could combat it like before, stave off the negative repressing emotions. But for some reason, he couldn't find the energy. It took all he had in just making the short journey through the labyrinth of a hospital, in keeping his wobbly feet in a straight line towards the room of death.

What he wouldn't have given in seeing his brother lively and healthy again? It was his fault, he knew. He didn't have to try to be a hero and go into the fiery building. He didn't have to make the decision of staying inside to find the rest of the children. Of course, had it not been for him, the kids undoubtedly would have died of smoke inhalation or disturbingly flam-boiled shish-ka-bobs. Still, had he not stay, he wouldn't have been there at the time where the floor decided to call it quits, and his brother wouldn't have made the stupid decision of coming in after him.

The guilt surmounted almost everything else; so much, he was drowning in it.

It wasn't the guilt of rescuing the children that weighed heavily on his shoulders—he would do the same thing over again had there been a redo. No, if he had listened to his brother and left out of the place before it collapsed, then perhaps Sam wouldn't have had to save him, and as a result of the effort, suffer a major heart attack?

Hot, filmy tears coalesced in Dean's eyes. He couldn't bear to think of what he had done to his baby brother. He was supposed to take care of him, be with him when it happened; remain by his side as the worst part of the disease overtook him. But he wasn't. He was strapped down to a gurney, caught in the throes of exhaustion, suffocating from smoldering, thick smoke, and dealing with a heavy concussion. He had left Sam all alone. And that, in itself, was nonredeemable.

His memory of the incident was like that of blank charred paper falling through a shredder: After the fall through the floor in the House of Hell, as it is commonly said, it was _lights out_. Only Bobby took up the sole job of filling in the blanks from what happened between then and at the current time.

_Horrible, grating wheezes were the first tingles of sound to reach his seemingly deaf ears. It only took him a long moment to realize those wheezes were coming from him. _

"_Dean," a distant echo called several times. The call was soft and alluring, somewhat pulling him from the dark, sweet oblivion. _

_He jerked awake. As though his senses were all held under water, everything was discombobulated, muddled: his sense of touch numb, his sense of smell off the scale, his sight muddy and trapped under a plastic tarp it looked, his sense of taste gone haywire as the foul taste of ash with an odd combo of banana smoothie enveloped each and every taste-bud, and his hearing was perhaps below radar, as any sound, tiny or loud, were like they were part of echolocation. He knew it couldn't have been good, considering he was pretty sure he didn't have fins and a tail. _

_However the longer Dean's mind ventured into consciousness, the more lucid and mature his senses became._

_A strong, abrupt cough erupted and he cringed heavily; the powerful gust of expelled air shredding and pulverizing his fragile throat. His vision cleared and the outline of a man focused before him, to where he peered dead-on into a pair of old glistening blue eyes. The creases around the eyes and the tarnished, frayed ballcap told him all he needed to know. It was Bobby. _

"_Bobby." He was marveled at how scratchy his voice echoed in his ears. "Wha—"_

"_Here," the old man handed him a plastic cup of water. Immediately he took the small straw into his mouth and began sucking the water away as though he were a hydraulic vacuum. "Easy boy! Don't overdo it!" Bobby chastised, pulling the cup away as he choked. _

_Dean sat back, grateful for the alleviating frigidness the water had on his throat. He could speak a little more clearly now. "What happened?" He asked taking a small gander around. It was plain obvious given the plain walls, the rectangular complicated equipment, and tall diamond checkered-curtains that he were a hospital. _

_Bobby appeared a bit uneasy. The once bright eyes wove around in their sockets and he rubbed his hands together agitatedly. Whatever that had happened, he really wasn't in the mood, or perhaps was figuring a way of relaying it. "Bobby? Is everything okay? I'm not dying, right?" He asked with a smile. _

_The man huffed at the sarcasm. "Nah kid, you're not dyin'. Doc says you'll be fine. Just a bit of trauma to your lungs, but other than a lot of water and your medicine, you'll be your sweet princess self in no time…" There was a small glimmer of a tear in his left eye. "How are ya feeling?"_

_Dean shrugged, hardly able to move his legs. "A bit heavy. I got a headache from Hell, but otherwise I'm good," he shrugged again. "I'm kinda hungry, though!"_

"_Oh good," Bobby whispered. _

"_How did I get out?" Dean asked. "I remember falling through, but that's about it. Did one of the suits come in and haul my ass out? I was pretty sure I was a goner." At the continued silence of the old man, Dean became a bit intrigued. "Bobby? Who dug me out?"_

_Bobby turned an irritated eye on him. He soughed loudly before saying, "That idgit brother of yours."_

"_WHAT!" His raspy voice rang. The alarm bells triggered and Dean suddenly felt a deep sense of nausea settle in the pit of his stomach. The last time he remembered feeling that was when his father had disappeared and was found dead. "What do you mean Sammy went in? Oh my God, that stupid idiot!"_

"_I know. I tried to stop him, but..." Bobby paused, constantly casting his eyes away, "but…something happened to him Dean."_

"_What are you talking about?"_

"_I don't know, but I've never anything like it. When you didn't come back out, and the firemen had said you were a goner, it was like something inside of him woke up. I had never seen him so angry before, and he went in. He didn't walk, he ran in. I tried to stop him. Hell, even a few of the suits tried to stop him from going in, but he pushed them down like they were nothing. I don't know how he did it, but it was like seeing the old Sam again. He was a hero Dean, and he saved ya."_

_Dean developed a scowl. It wasn't that he wasn't proud to hear that his brother had saved his life, but it downright pissed him off that Sam would be stupid enough to enter a burning building, knowing his condition. The scowl soon softened and he couldn't help but smile. That kid will never cease to amaze him. "Get him in here! I need to teach that boy another lesson he won't forget!"_

_Bobby suddenly closed his eyes, as if he were preparing for this moment, and finally realized now was the time to pucker up. At the forlorn look, Dean heard the beep from his heart monitor pick up a beat, the rapid sessions of beats thrumming in his ears. _

"_Bobby? Where's Sammy?" The old man bit his lip and it only annoyed Dean to no end. "Bobby, spit it out. Where's my brother?"_

"_He's not here Dean," Bobby stated sadly. "After you, uh…you uh…"_

"_What? After what?" Dean pressed._

_Bobby sent a mean, powering glare. "Chill," he demanded. "After Sam pulled you out, he uh…he suddenly had a massive heart attack. Dean, um, I have to tell you. Sam um…his heart uh…it stopped for a whole minute, and they couldn't get it back…"_

"_He—"_

"_He died Dean—"_

_The brother's eyes swelled and he gasped, "Oh my God…"_

Dean couldn't remember what had happened next. It was all a blur. He liked to think he may have had a heart attack himself after Bobby so nobly told him what had happened to Sam, because in the next minute, all he heard were the monitors going haywire and seconds later an entire line of hospital staff ran in and began to prod and poke. Who knows? Maybe he died as well!

Well, apparently that wasn't the case as he was welcomed back to the land of the living not too long after. And in that very moment, all he wanted to do was to find his brother. His injuries be damned! While he was busy off in some local clinic only God knows where, Sam was taken elsewhere. With Bobby's hand of support, and under careful directions given to by his doctor, he was driven up to the designated hospital.

And that was where he was now…walking—well, rather limping—oh so slowly, on his way to see Sam. The Morgue drew ever closer and his body shook with fear. Usually on a case he'd be brimming with excitement, ready to examine whatever dead body that gave a testament to the current hunt. But now…now he had to fight hard to not turn around and run away.

Overwhelming frightened, Dean clenched Bobby's hand tight. He was still suffering the effects of the fire in how his kneecap was slighted twisted, his lungs still burned, and he had a monstrous headache. In fact, he was quite surprised he could see straight as he continued. But at long last, the terrible journey came to an end as they finally reached the room they needed to go, entering it with sad, highly finicky facials. Dean took a slow even breath and opened his eyes.

And there he was, Sam, his baby brother, lying so still, so pale, his lips an entire shade of purplish blue, just as he imagined. The room was dark, his vision blocking everything out, all except the person lying ahead of him. He limped ahead, not at all prepared for what came next.

"Sammy?" Without meaning to, his voice quivered uncontrollably.

No movement.

"Sammy, I'm so sorry," the statement escaped him as he took up his brother's cool flaccid hand. "I'm so sorry!"

Again there was nothing, and Dean bowed his head in shame and guilt, unable to look or feel anything…until the firm, unmistakably cool fingers wrapped around his. His head perked up and his eyes traveled frantically until they locked upon a pair of exhausted grayish greens, and suddenly Dean's world was bright and cheery again. The darkness evaporated, the beige walls illuminated everything giving him a slight chill, the machinery attached to his brother making him convulse with sympathy.

"Hey Dean," Sam rasped.

It was barely audible but Dean heard it. He pursed his lips. "I should kick your ass."

Sam smirked. "Hello to you too!" He said something else, but Bobby couldn't understand it. Dean translated. "He says hey to you too!"

"Oh! Hey kid, good to see you're awake," Bobby half smiled, half-chuckled. "For sure once they flew you up here to Chrysler I thought that was gonna be the last we saw of ya."

Sam shrugged depleted, but he never let go of Dean's hand.

"Tell me about it. Every time I kept seeing the sign for the morgue, it freaked me out. They even had one on this hallway pointing down to the basement, like it's not that obvious. Anyways, once Bobby told me I jumped out of bed to get here, but"—Dean turned a dark scowl to his mentor—"they wouldn't let me. So we called every hour, but so far nothing. And that was it, I signed myself out and voila, here I am!"

There was a hint of a smile underneath the plastic trapped beneath Sam's nose. "Y-you…look…good."

"You don't have to talk so much Sammy, save your breath. And yeah, I'm good. Docs patched me up good and plenty," Dean sighed out of relief. "I can't tell ya how mad I am at you for doing that…but I'm proud of ya. Thanks dude!"

Despite Sam's best efforts, he gave several smirks, and that was good enough for Dean. He shook his head. "I can't believe you survived that somehow."

"Me too," Sam whispered. "And I don't know how either."

"Well don't worry about that. The important thing right now is that you did beat it, but keep fighting, ya hear? We still have a long way to go," he patted the cool hand. "Hang tight, we'll be back in a minute. Bobby and I need to go talk with your doctor. Go to sleep dude. I'm proud of ya Sammy."

At the mere mention of sleep, Sam's head had already listed to the side and he was off into the land of intricate dreams. Bobby had begun to move out the door in search of Bresley. Dean stopped at the door and looked back. "I'm really proud of you boy, never been so much in my entire life. Don't let me down."

**Oh! Sammy's alive? Yup! Sorry for the scare. But I couldn't resist! ;) Hey Nicole, that part of Bobby's flashback was just for you. I did find a way to make your request! Hope it was okay! We'll have more of that coming up! The next chappie will be up in a jiffy!**


	18. Nothing Else Matters

**Alright? Is everyone okay? Apparently I gave everyone a bit of a scare last chapter. Well…I can't say that wasn't the intention, but I'm glad you're all alive and kickin'! No need to fret for this one, the suspense is taking a bit of a break! But we'll get back to that. This is me we're talking about! ;) Warning: this chapter may contain a few "awe" moments. Well, not really, but it is real odd to say the least. Enjoy! Title from the one and only: Metallica. **

**Chapter Seventeen:**

**Nothing Else Matters**

_Chrysler Medical Sinai, North Dakota: Three Weeks ago_

The sound of crinkling paper echoed fiercely inside the near empty room. The crinkling became intense, followed by a swift "swap", and next what Sam saw envelope his vision was a large sepia-colored picture.

Dean pushed the newspaper clip close almost staring indignantly at his little brother. "You see this?"

Sam chuckled softly. The picture was of him at the orphanage carrying a bold and daring look with his limp brother hoisted over his shoulders as he strolled through the fiery set of doors. A slight smirk formed in his pale lips. That was probably the best picture he had of himself and by no means was he to brag, but he really liked it. The dark, bold label over the top read **Sioux's Orphanage burns down. Heroes save orphans and nearly die!**"

"Ya see it, huh?" Dean pressed.

"Yeah. I think I look hot," Sam croaked in reply. The ceaseless amount of oxygen over the past couple of weeks continually kept his throat dry and hoarse. Water did nothing. Sure, it helped alleviate some of the coarseness for a brief second, but unless he was a recyclable water fountain, it hardly had such an everlasting effect leading to a very raspy throat.

"Uh huh," Dean huffed flapping out the paper to eye level. He cleared his throat. "Don't _even_ let this go to your head. It was still the stupidest thing you have ever done."

"And if I didn't? You'd be a shish-ka-bob. Probably a little charred at the edges, but still a tad juicy," Sam wheezed, developing a big goofy grin at his brother's chagrin.

"Very funny bitch," replied his brother monotonously. He turned to Bobby who had been sitting quietly beside him listening to their banter. "Thanks for bringing this Bob—"

"Well what does it say?" Sam shrieked, causing the two men to jolt in their seats.

"Jeez Sammy," Dean flipped back the paper, "It says…"

"Let me read it!"

Dean turned a quizzical eye. "Can you read it?" He asked, but backed away in his seat at the sudden deep scowl emanating from his sick brother's eyes and face.

"Jerk," Sam whispered darkly. "Give it!" He weakly snatched the paper from Dean's hand, folding it out on his lap. It read:

**Sioux's fire continued.**

_By Xander Colloquial. _

_What began as a small accident with a candle turned into a hellish nightmare for the staff and children of the recent Sioux's local orphanage. According to headmistress Matilda Foxworth the children were a little rowdy in a room adjacent to the room that had first caught fire. A lit candle sitting on a dresser had accidentally fallen off onto a mattress, going up in flames immediately. Soon the fire had consumed the entire bedspread where several of the kid's drying costumes lye._

"_The costumes were painted over with polyurethane. We had no idea the room would catch fire so quickly," says Foxworth._

_Before anyone realized what had happened, the fire had quickly spread throughout two and a half rooms on the fifth floor. Due to the flammable material, there was no buffer to impede the rapid onslaught. Within minutes, the flames dominated the entire fifth floor. Within ten minutes, the entire fourth floor._

_Foxworth and other teachers of the vicinity had tried to evacuate all the kids on the fourth and fifth floors. Unfortunately a few others had run off and became lost through the smoke, others left up on the third floor._

_Through tears, Foxworth confesses, "It was so hot. The smoke was so dense; I couldn't see. Nobody could see. And it was suffocating. I had to get out all of those I had in my sight. God help me, I left those kids behind."_

_However, Foxworth says God spoke to her and had sent down his angels in the form of two men. Dean Winchester(27) and his brother Sam (23)—who according to their uncle and local junkyard mechanic Robert "Bobby" Singer had been suffering from heart failure and was on their way to the hospital at the time the fire started. Singer says Dean had told him he made a promise to himself to be charitable if his brother made the promise to him that he would keep fighting his illness. Lucky for the small children left behind, rescue had arrived._

_Immediately upon hearing there were still children left inside from Foxworth, without hesitancy or regard for his own safety, Dean had rushed into the fiery monsoon. His brother quickly corralled the children and staff away from the building and into the field where he then placed a call to the police and his uncle._

_Minutes later, Dean had emerged at the top of the second floor._

"_I saw it with my own eyes. It was the work of two brave soldiers doing what they had to do to save those kids," says Foxworth reminiscing how Dean, the older brother, lowered each child he found on the second floor individually by his belt to his little brother who caught and safely pushed them away from the roaring flames. After the five or six kids were back with the rest of the group, the local authorities had at last shown up._

_Sam had called to Dean to come on down, but he yelled there were several left, and once more had disappeared through the suffocating cloud of doom. Singer tells us Sam had near collapsed at that point and that's how he found him, exhausted and waiting anxiously for his brother to reappear. At that moment, three of Sioux's finest fire-squad went in as the others opened up the hoses. It was a wait against time as no one knew if anyone would survive. The entire building was up in flames and every one had it in their minds that it would take a miracle._

_Blessed be, it was a miracle as several minutes later our finest strolled right back out with the remaining set of kids. I appeared on scene at that time and recollect how the kids were taken to the awaiting paramedics all covered in black. They peered up at me with their big eyes and little faces, and smiled. They too knew a miracle had happened. The only problem was four men had gone into the house of hell and three had made it out._

_Winchester wasn't part of the group._

_To Singer's and his brother's horror, I overheard a fireman explaining to the family that the floor caved in and had taken the man with it. He was presumably dead!_

_Though I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, the little brother had downright refused to believe his big brother's fate were true, and astoundingly, despite his deteriorating and fragile condition, had rushed into the flaming hellhole. Singer and others attempted to stop him, but he pushed past them all in a strange heroic display and entered._

_Singer says to me in a later interview that at that moment he truly felt he had lost both of his boys, which he feels are like both of his sons. Since their father had passed away around six or seven months ago and their mother when the boys were merely toddlers, he had taken them in and under his wing._

"_They are my two sons, no matter how they feel about it, and I really thought I had lost them both," Bobby said. "But…I should've known something like this wouldn't have taken my boys from me."_

_True enough, about ten minutes later, Sam had emerged through the set of doors carrying his brother over his shoulders (see picture). Dean was alive. Suffering from possible burns and smoke inhalation Dean was immediately carted off to the local Sioux clinic. After his brother was safe, Sam had collapsed where unfortunately because of the exertion and smoke had triggered a massive _heart attack_. The paramedics worked fast and had used on the on-hand defibrillator. After a minute or so, it appeared that the youngest Winchester hadn't made it._

_But luckily for us in Sioux, miracles do happen. The head EMT had called it again and had managed to sustain a heartbeat. They immediately packed him up and transported him through helicopter up to Chrysler Medical Sinai in North Dakota where a team of specialists had been waiting. The team was able to revive Sam and now I'm told he is on standby for an available heart._

_After a week later, news has reached my ears that all the children are healthy, despite a few coughs, and are playing again. Foxworth says they are now in a main shelter provided by the county itself and have extra recess time. Dean only suffered a few burns and a twisted knee, but otherwise will be back to his normal self in no time. Word still has yet to come in regards of his little brother's condition. Singer told me yesterday that he was planning on making another visit in a couple of days, but had said nothing about how his nephew was. Dean had been with Sam since they were able to make it up there about two days after the incident and hasn't left since. I suppose we all would be wondering how the youngest Winchester is going to fare. Until we do, we'll keep you in our prayers Sam. Stay strong, kid!_

As he read the last part, Sam felt a pervading heaviness in his left eye. Quickly he wiped away the growing tear. He enjoyed the article, however not so much as it put him into a noble light. He didn't feel so heroic. His brother was the hero. He only went in because he didn't want to face his disease all alone.

He sent Bobby a comical grin. "So Bobby? Now I see where you've been all this time."

"Yeah, well…you're welcome," Bobby chuckled sheepishly. "The guy came by my house a couple weeks ago as I was on my way out; might as well have given my two cents. You deserve it kid. You both did."

"Thanks for bringing it in Bobby," Dean said. "What else you got here?" He asked referring to the several gift baskets, flowers, and cards the old man had delivered.

"Ah, just some stuff that people had left on my doorstep. The cards are from the kids. They made and painted them their selves. Figured I bring it here for ya'll before I had to get back."

"Get back? But you just got here!" Sam croaked, choking on a cookie he stole from a basket.

"I know son, but something came up right as I arrived and I need to get back to take care of it. I asked them to come up here, but I don't think they can. Don't worry it won't take me long," Bobby replied calmly.

"What is it? It's not a hunt, is it?" Dean asked abruptly.

"No, it's not a hunt, so keep the cavalry at bay there captain," Bobby warned slightly. "But I do think it's something you might appreciate. I'm supposed to meet them at five, so I gotta get going. I'll be back probably later tonight, and I'll get a motel room so that I don't have to keep commuting."

"Well who are you meeting?"

"Dean…" Sam called.

"No, seriously I really want to know. What's going on?"

Bobby chortled at the man's agitation. "You'll see."

"Bobby!" Dean growled.

"Sorry. Gotta go now. Bye!" And with a cheery grin, the old geezer had left out the door, whistling a Sweet ole' Medley.

"Jerk," Dean issued, settling back down in his overused chair.

"I wonder what's so important," Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "Haven't a clue, but we better find out soon. You know me, I hate waiting!"

"Likewise."

There was a loud resounding knock and the brother's turned their attention to the door where the tall doc Bresley walked in with a broad cheerful smile. "Good afternoon gentlemen. How are you feeling Sam?"

"Eh…a bit heavy," Sam mumbled.

"Yeah," Bresley nodded, strolling further into the room with a wheelchair, "that's expected."

"Any news doc? Anything available yet?" Dean piped.

The doc hesitated for a moment. He could see the large, expectant expressions coming from both the Winchester men, and it pained him to reveal the downside of the news. "Nah, nothing as of yet. Of course, I can't tell you not to worry, because I'm aware it won't do anything, but we'll let you know first thing if there is one available. I swear."

"M'kay," Dean sat dejectedly back in his seat.

"I'm sorry, but it's time for an X-ray Sam. We want to take another look on your circulation and the size of your heart. It shouldn't take too long."

"That's okay. You do whatcha gotta do doc," Sam replied, taking a deep breath before preparing to struggle in pulling himself up into a sitting position. Dean rightfully stood up and carefully pushed his back up and unfurled his blankets off his shining legs whilst Bresley unhooked the nasal cannula. Together, Dean and the doc partly lifted the scrawny body off the bed and into the chair. Sam immediately slumped within the confines, already tired from the effort.

Bresley wheeled him out with jet-blasting speed—or that's how it felt in Sam's opinion. Dean remained alongside keeping up with the long strides as they made their way towards the other end of the hospital. He said nothing but watched the many thousand of white tiles zoom past him. In a way, it was slightly dizzying.

Finally arriving in the radiology department, an effervescent "Dean!" resonated throughout the halls behind them. Dean turned in time for something small and lean to barrel into him, squeezing his thighs tightly. The smell of antiseptic and bananas instantly told him who it was. Though one look at the baby blue unicorn dappled handkerchief and hospital-provided sweats was all he needed.

It was Kylie, the ten-year-old from the third floor.

He softly rubbed Kylie's bony back and peered down into her large baby blue eyes. "Hey baby girl. Finished with playtime?"

"Puh! They just threw us the ball over and over again. You call that playtime?" The child piped, shaking her pale head. "Vicky wants me to go back to bed, but I don't want to."

"Aw, I know what you mean."

"I have to take that nasty stuff again," Kylie squeaked, her eyes appearing brighter. "I hate it. It's icky and it hurts."

Dean gave her his most charming smile. "I know honey, but don't worry. As I've been saying all this time you're a trooper. They keep saying you're overcoming it. So it'll all be over soon."

"You promise."

"I promise."

Dean and Sam had met Kylie about three days after Sam was admitted. They learned the child had been battling Leukemia for the past six months and since then the hospital had become her home as her parents had to work two jobs each to pay for the medical bills. While Sam was off doing God-knows whatever testing, Dean sat with Kylie and both would keep each other company. Whenever he was allowed in at the same time as Sam during the tests, Kylie would tag along too.

Luckily for Dean, during times of extreme duress, he had the little girl there to comfort and to care for, to help take his mind off of Sam's degenerating health, and he had to admit, it helped a lot. It helped too whenever Sam was awake and Dean needed a bit of shut eye that she knew how to play Rummy. Being in the hospital for so long, and without the benefit of the other cancer kids, Kylie had become friends with a lot of the staff and had learned a fair bit when it came to card games.

"Sambo!" The little girl let go of Dean and raced around to the wheelchair and gave the twenty-three year old the same air-squandering hug. She buried her nose into his neck and sniffed. "You smell like cookies."

"H-hey K-kylie," Sam murmured in reply. "Yeah we just had a couple."

"You did?" Bresley raised a thick eyebrow, appearing unenthused especially when the young man returned the question with an innocent shrug.

Kylie backed away, slightly miffed. "Aw, you didn't save me any?"

"No," Sam weakly shook his head, "we have more. You have to come to our room to get some though."

"Okay," the little girl exclaimed excitably. She called behind him, "Miss Vicky? Can I stay with Sam and Dean, please? Pretty please with sugar on top!"

The red-headed bombshell in green scrubs, Dean sort of had a tiny crush on, ambled on determinedly towards them, shaking her big hips. Her bright amber eyes lit up on her pointy face. "No, I don't think you should. You need to be back in the ward and in bed. It's nap time."

"Oh please. I promise I'll have naptime, really I will! But please, can I hang with them?" Kylie was nearly hopping.

The nurse Vicky had looked to Bresley unsure. The tall doctor shrugged, obviously signaling to her that it was her call.

"It's okay Vicky, I can handle this little pipsqueak," Dean remarked cheerily. Kylie squealed in excitement as he flipped her up and over his shoulder. "See, piece of cake. I promise to take care of her." He gave her the privilege of one of his most charming smiles.

Vicky sighed. "All right, but not for too long. Her parents should be coming by this afternoon."

"Not a problem," Dean pulled Kylie down and held her up on his hip. "Guess what you little troublemaker, you're mine!"

"Yay!"

Bresley took Sam into the main photo room. Kylie and Dean remained on the outside watching, as Kylie couldn't be anywhere near the radiation machinery—unless it was time for another chemo session. The procedure took only a few minutes where the hardest part was lifting Sam on and off the table. Bresley remained behind in scanning the screenings as the head nurse Chloe rolled Sam out the door. He appeared more depleted and rung out than he was before going in, forcing Dean to bite his lip to keep from saying anything.

Once back in their designated room, Chloe and Dean placed Sam back in bed as Kylie helped herself to the several selections of cookie madness located in the flamboyantly dressed gift-baskets. Chloe finished attaching the despised itchy sensors to Sam's chest and checking his vitals before letting herself out to complete more of her rounds. Kylie, with her little mouth stuffed of many large brown squares, and her hands full of them too, along with Dean's guidance, maneuvered herself onto Sam's bed, snuggling up close with her back to his chest. Appreciative, Sam covered her with his second blanket, leaning in further into his pillow.

"Tell us a story Dean," Kylie asked through bits of crumbs. Bits of yellow bread and chocolate adhered all around her puffy white cheeks making her resemble more of a pale, bald chipmunk.

"Yeah Dean. Tell us a story," Sam encouraged with a mischievous smirk.

"Uh…"

"Come on Dean. I know you've got one up there in that noggin of yours. Do it!"

"Well…" he was struck dumb. "Well what do you want? A made up story? A real life story? What? Details please."

"Whatever you know. Come on, time's a wasting!"

Dean sent a critical glare towards his brother. "You're annoying, you know that?"

"It can't be any other way," Sam smiled.

"Alright," Dean stretched his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles, before awkwardly cracking his neck. "Story…story…storytime. But I don't know…"

"It can be anything. Come on Dean-o! Give it a whirl!" Kylie shrieked, "It can't be that bad! You've got to know at least one!"

"Oh you don't know Dean. Any story in mind with Dean usually deals with guns, girls, and…no, no that's about it," Sam remarked.

"Ewwww," Kylie drawled.

"Not only Sammy," Dean scowled through clench teeth. "Fine, you want a story? I'll give you a story. Hold on to your seats boy and girl, it's going to be epic." He cleared his throat.

"Oh boy, here we go!"

"Shut it Bi…Biot…Beatrice!" He soon acquired that look of a deer caught in headlights realizing it wasn't exactly appropriate to call his brother by his nickname in front of the ten year old. But it did cause his brother to laugh. "Alright, here we go. Uh…let's see…uh…" He paused as an idea sparked.

"Okay. Once upon a time in the mystical world of Dean-Land…" Sam and Kylie chuckled, "nah I'm kidding. It all began in a very small town where two little boys lived."

"Why do I get the feeling this might be a little familiar?" Sam lifted an eyebrow.

"May I?" Dean extended a hand, gazing stubbornly at his interruptive little brother. Sam nodded his consent. "Anyways, picking it back up where I was so _rudely_ interrupted, there lived two little boys, and their names were uh…were um…ah, Huey and Dewey…"

"You've gotta be kidding? Huey and Dewey?" Sam blurted.

"Well, would you prefer Bert and Ernie?" Dean challenged.

"Huey and Dewey are fine."

"Thank you," Dean sat back. "Okay, as the story goes…"

Kylie laughed. "You guys are too funny."

"Good grief, I can't tell this story, can I?"

"Sorry. Sorry, keep going," Kylie and Sam said in unison which totally freaked the crap out of Dean.

"Don't do that again. That…that was creepy," he murmured. "Anyways, Huey and Dewey. Well as it happens Dewey had this really weird obsession of going around town and collecting rocks. And this little town was next to a mining canyon, and so there was a whole butt-load. He would find them, the prettiest, shiniest, whatever and clean them up with a toothbrush. At the end of the day, he'd keep them inside this Barbie-Doll suitcase, cuz it was the only thing big enough he could find in the dumpster. So there were _a lot_ of rocks."

"I was only seven years old Dean. I was trying to be a geologist!" Sam exclaimed, his cheeks turning a bright shade of crimson.

Dean flashed a sardonic grin. "Story's not about you Sammy."

"Yeah, whatever!"

"So yes, Dewey had a lot of rocks. Huey kept asking him over and over again 'what was the point in keeping them' when their dad was only going to say no. But Dewey was so stubborn he didn't listen. He brought that Barbie-Doll bag everywhere he went. Until one day dear old pops was supposed to come home, and so Dewey had no choice but to toss the rocks."

"As I seemed to recall, _you_ were the one who threw the rocks," Sam interjected.

Dean sent an unappreciative stare. "Okay? Huey threw the rocks. He started to freak because he knew how his Dad felt about those kinds of things. So he thought he did the next best thing and chucked them out the door…only…"

"Dad was already home," Sam piped.

"Yep, and the entire set of earthen miscreants went straight through the back window of their precious baby on wheels, who had unfortunately been parked in front of the door. As you can imagine Huey's reaction, his Dad wasn't very happy. Luckily he had tossed them out so fast Dad didn't see who it was as he was coming back from a diner right across from the motel. So Huey hightailed it."

At the memory, Dean's expression softened. "I…uh…I mean Huey thought he was a goner. But it turns out that Dewey stood up for him, for no reason at all. Dewey went straight to their dad and confessed that he had done it for the same reasons. Dad did punish him and sent him to bed without dinner, but it was Huey who was worse off. He never did think his brother would love him that much to stand up for him, to protect him in that way. Even when he was grown up, he'll never forget that. So Huey did come to his Dad later and told him the whole scoop, told him it wasn't Dewey's fault, and that he only got rid of them because he didn't want Dewey to get into trouble. Of course Dad did thank him for being a man and telling the truth, but he did serve a punishment for breaking the glass. But that wasn't the point. The point was that the two brothers stood up for one another at the cost of themselves and besides that nothing really mattered."

"This is kind of boring. It was just rocks," Kylie spoke up.

"Oh," Dean bit his lip, thinking. "But they were mystical rocks and they turned the car into a hot rod. That's why Dad wasn't so mad."

"What's a hot rod?"

"A really cool car; and you know what else those rocks did?"

"What?"

"They turned those kids into heroes, gave em' superpowers, so they could beat and kill monsters that hurt people everyday. They continued doing that until they were all grown up or…at least until…they had their good times."

He smiled, his mind suddenly going rampant leaving his mouth under zero control. "You see it wasn't all like that. Huey and Dewey first had to find their magical powerful black steed. The hot rod was like nothing else. It had starspeed, able to go long distances without a single rattle or sputter, and when she was happy, oh man, she would shine so bright. She'd put a smile on any two-face doofus within a mile radius. She was a beauty and she served the boys well."

"Huey and Dewey traveled far and wide, hardly stopping for a day. They would save people day in and day out, without even wanting something in return. It was a part of who they were. Those special rocks, they uh…they made this magical bond between the two. Whenever one another were in trouble, the other would know. And they would do just about anything for each other and fight anything. Vampires. Shapeshifters. Rawheads. Demons. The list goes on. Not once did they run and hide— okay, maybe except once from a Talpa—but because they knew they were given a talent, a special power, they had to do something about it."

Dean saw that Sam had began the long blinks into oblivion while Kylie was tagging not too far behind. So he continued. "It was only when Dad had passed on into the light that things became rocky between the two little boys. They continued fighting monsters whenever they could, but it just wasn't the same. And then soon, Dewey got real sick. The two little boys had to come to a decision. Live to fight another day or go down swinging. Well, Huey had to be the older brother and force Dewey to live another day, because in his mind there was no living if Dewey had died. There would be no fighting monsters again. Those special rocks created something so fierce and strong; only one is stronger with the other. Without one another, they would both soon die. Because…because that's just how it is. Nothing else mattered as long as one of them was willing to fight, or willing to live. Which is such bullshit really, but I'm okay with that…and uh…that's it, basically…"

Dean sighed as he said the last verse. "…cuz really nothing else matters." He looked back over and snorted. Kylie's head was resting on Sam's outstretched arm and they both were in a deep peaceful sleep. "Yep, that's it. Sleep tight guys."

He had just finished pulling the covers over the snoozing individuals when someone entered the room. Dean stood up at the sight of Kylie's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hydecker. Mr. Hydecker was a short squatty man with a current frazzled look behind his thick black square-rimmed glasses and in a market-labor apron, whereas Mrs. Hydecker was taller than average with broad legs and shoulders and in business casual attire. Dean had to admit that if he had made any casual remark about her stature that she resembled more of hardcore drill sergeant with that puckered look like she had bit down on too many lemons, he was sure she'd be able to knock him into next week.

"Hi Mr. Winchester, how are you today?" Mr. Hydecker asked.

"Good. You?"

"Hangin' in there," the man replied with a sigh. "We're sorry to bother you, but we were told Kylie had made a visit."

"Yeah, she's here. We just finished storytime, and I think I bored them both to death," he pointed to the bed. The couple's faces both brightened up at seeing their child; only shrank back, a bit alarmed in witnessing their child in bed with a grown adult. However, the two shrugged it off tiresomely. Mr. Hydecker went over and collected his child while his wife stayed by the door. Kylie, still asleep, wrapped her arms around her father's neck.

"How is your brother doing?" Mrs. Hydecker asked, taking out her cellphone.

Dean bit his lip again and glanced away for a brief second. "He's fine for right now, but…we won't know anything until there's a heart ready. Til then, we just have to wait."

The Mrs. took her attention off the cell for a brief second. "I'm sorry to hear that," she offered, which had Dean puzzled. She wasn't known to speak more than two words every time they had met, so this more-than-two-sentence form of sympathy came as a surprise.

Kylie stirred in her father's arms. "Shhh," he said rubbing the back of her bandana. "Come on, let's get into your own bed, and let's leave Mr. Winchester to his rest."

"Have a good evening," the wife said to Dean before the family had left.

Feeling a tad alone and bored, Dean settled into his chair, not at all ready for the events to come. He fought each and every day to keep hope, but now he felt in his core that he had to fight for each and every minute. Who knew how much longer he was going to keep it up? If there wasn't a heart soon, then maybe it wouldn't have to be Sam he'd have to worry about dying. He only prayed something would come soon, but really _nothing else matters_ except for Sam living through this.

**Yeah, it was a bit sappy…and the story part, I know, a bit odd. But hey, I was trying to show Dean's sensitive side (since as we all know now he does have one) and I wanted to strengthen that bond between he and his brother a tad more. Because for what we have coming up next, they're both going to need it. **


	19. But Home is Nowhere

**Well, we're getting this thing on the move. We have only more than a few chapters to go. And of course, the tension couldn't wait too long. With that said, I hope you enjoy! Title from **_**AFI**_**. Tootles!**

**Chapter Eighteen:**

**But Home is No Where**

_Chrysler Medical Sinai, a week later:_

It was the sound of pained whispers that brought Sam back from his empty slumber to his painful existence.

"Ow…Jeez…lighten up back there!"

"Stop crying like a baby. You're going to wake up Sambo."

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

The sound of squeaky laughter ensued.

"I can't believe I'm letting you do this."

There was more high-pitched childish laughter followed by a small, "I saw Carter Melling's sister do this to him. Your hair's gotten longer, and so I couldn't wait to try it."

"Yeah, well did anyone say to you that you're a butcher when it comes to the scalp?" It was all too unmistakable to deny that it was his brother speaking.

Quarrelling against the heavy weights that bore down on his eyelids, Sam slowly pried them open to slits, the outlines of his brother and Kylie appearing like fuzzy spectrums. Once the visible details clarified, Sam bucked back in consternation, a little shocked at Dean's appearance. He had to wait a minute to finally convince himself that what he was witnessing was very, very real.

It was a Chia-pet! Or a porcupine when it was on the defensive? It had to be…or maybe Halloween hadn't yet come and Dean was trying to make the audition for Pin-Head from Hellraiser. For the first time ever, Sam Winchester was struck dumb! Kylie stood behind Dean banding together little clumps of hair with tiny rubber bands, and so his sibling had hair jutting out in little spikes all around his head. Sam's eyes grew to twice their size. What he wouldn't give to have a camera at that very moment?

"Oh…My…God," he whispered loudly.

Simultaneously Dean and Kylie turned towards him with iconic "deer in headlights" expressions. The child produced a smile so bright; she could've lit up an entire football field. His brother, however… Dean practically tried spinning to the best of his ability in his seat to hide his cherry-red cheeks. It was made quite obvious that Sam's eyes were not meant to see Dean's current choice of fun. Oh, the mileage to be had on this one!

But it was already too late. Sam mostly attempted to smile. "Now…" his chest heaved with the exertion, "I think…I've…seen it all."

"Oh no you haven't," Dean replied lifting his hands and spreading his fingers out. Sam narrowed his vision and saw to his astonishment that each and every one of Dean's fingernails was painted "Rosy Pink". A small cough of surprise erupted past Sam's throat without warning. He stared in utter confusion at his big brother.

"This is what happens when you're the guinea pig of a bored ten-year-old." He glanced back at Kylie. "A _very_ bored ten-year-old."

Kylie leaned out from behind his head. "I can't put it on my fingernails and I had to see what the color looked like," she flashed another one of those bright smirks. "He looks good in it, I think."

"Yeah," Sam chuckled, closing his eyes. That short smile lingered as long as possible. For a brief second, it puzzled him why his brother would go so far in entertaining the little girl. But then the answer was all too clear. Dean loved the attention. Crazy antics and embarrassing foreplay was an almost too easy outlet. It didn't bother him. He was very much glad Dean had someone else to occupy his mind.

"You done back there?" Dean's brash voice called out, jerking Sam awake again.

"Yeah, that was the last one," Kylie answered. She came back around and stopped in front to admire her work. "Beautiful," she caressed her fingertips, "Just beautiful."

She laughed again. "Sorry Dean, but I would do it to myself if I could," she took a seat on his lap.

Dean nodded. "Don't say that. Just give yourself a couple of weeks and you'll be looking as cute and cuddly like me in no time."

The child lifted a hairless eyebrow. "Uh…how 'bout never Deano! My hair's gone and it's never coming back."

Her eyes began to glisten as she bowed her head. Dean gracefully lifted her chin back up. "What are you talking about? Your hair is there. You can't see em', not in this light anyway, but they're there. I've noticed it since I've met you."

Kylie scoffed. "You're just saying that. The medicine Vicky gives me takes it all away. I'm never going to see it again."

"Nope," Dean shook his head, staring hard into the girl's baby blue eyes. "Here," he carefully slid the unicorn bandana off. "Huh? No wonder they can't grow. With that thing on, they can barely breathe. Well, what do you know, I'm looking at em' right now. They're tiny little blonde hair follicles. Ah, and I'm seeing a little bit curl to em' too!"

"Really?" Kylie's expression widened and she slapped a hand on top of her head. "I don't feel anything."

"Here," Dean took up her hand and slowly glided it against the top of the bald cranium. "Can you feel them? The little pricklies."

Sam watched as the child concentrated hard. After about a minute, Kylie's face lit up and she hopped off Dean's lap and ran to the nearest mirror, located in the bathroom. She ran out a second later jumping for joy. "Oh my Gosh. Oh my Gosh. They're there. They're there!" She ran and gave Dean a huge hug. "Dean! Dean! I've got hair. I've got hair. Does that mean I'm getting better?"

"I think so," Dean answered back with a grand grin. It grew even bigger when Kylie squealed some more with happiness, with a new promise for hope. "Yep, baby girl. Soon you'll be ready to knock those judges dead at that pageant you've always wanted to do."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Dean took her back up in his lap. "Plus with that charming smile you've got, who can beat that?"

"He's right Kylie," Sam said. "He's right."

The child squealed again. She hopped off of Dean's lap and wrapped her tiny arms around Sam's shoulders. "Thank you Sambo. I can't wait to tell my papa!"

"Kylie?" Someone called from the doorway. It was the nurse Vicky, followed closely by Chloe, Sam's regular nurse. They stepped in and both paused in shock at Dean's appearance. Dean shrugged offhandedly and pointed at the kid. Each nurse nodded in understanding entering further into the room.

"Miss Vicky! Miss Vicky, my hair's back!" The child skipped over to the nurse. "See," she pointed at her scalp, "It's back!"

Vicky leaned in closer and let out a sigh of happiness. "It is honey. And that's not all you got back. You're real energetic today, aren't you? All right. Well, we need to get you back to your ward honey. I need to take another blood test."

"Aww, do I have to?"

"Yeah, you do."

"It's okay Kylie, I'll come with ya," Dean offered. "It looks like Chloe may need some private time with Sammy here," he gave a wink to the nurse, who donned an awkward expression.

"Jerk," Sam wheezed.

"Ew," Kylie piped. "Okay?" She placed a firm grip into the man's hand and tugged him out the door.

"Be back in a minute Sammy. Try and stay awake. You don't want to miss anything," he quickly shouted, disappearing out of sight.

Sam shook his head. "Sometimes I hate him."

Chloe took up his chart and began making notes. "Yeah, well, what else are siblings for? There are times when I really do think God made them specifically to be pains in our asses."

"Sec..ond…that."

She completed more scribbling down on the pad, checking the readings off the monitor. "How are you feeling?"

Sam took several short breaths. "Should…you ask?" He attempted to look straight at her when speaking, but found he couldn't move his head from its spot.

"M'kay. How's the pacemaker doing?" She asked referring to the device she and Bresley attached to his chest a week prior. Sam didn't like it. It was hard, itchy, and downright uncomfortable. More so as it made him act more like a harbor for static electricity. Any source of friction would give him a shock. The tiny electrical surges weren't so astounding, but after the countless shocks instigated by even the smallest movement…yeah, annoying!

"It's fine," he responded.

"Alright," she set down the chart, approaching the bedspread and sliding the blankets off his legs. "I'm gonna start with your legs first."

"What's happening?"

"I'm just gonna do some stretching exercises, keep your circulation flowing. It'll help with a lot of the fluid build-up you're experiencing in your feet and lower extremities. Because of your height, and with heart failure, your circulation isn't as great as it should be. Okay? You ready?"

"When…e-ever y-you are."

"Okay," she began with his left leg, lifting it up into an 'L' shape and slowly stretching it out as far as it would go, completing the same technique over and over. By the time she was on the tenth repetition, Sam was out of breath. Who knew how much oxygen it would take to him in working, viable order? After another set, Chloe moved on to his other leg, resuming the same routine. It wasn't long before she had set to work on his arms too.

"Chloe?" Sam asked after the first rep on his right arm. "How…long…do I…have…to keep this up?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is there any hope?"

The question surely had taken the woman by surprise. Judging by the half-shocked, half-questionable expression plastered over her rosy complexion, he'd say she was a bit unsure how to approach that answer. She huffed. "I don't know if I'm the best person to answer that for you Sam. But I can tell you to hang in there, and that we're working on it."

"So there's nothing?"

"Nothing, as of yet; but don't give up."

"How…many…heart patients…have you had…in here, and who…survived?" He looked to her with doleful eyes.

"Sam," she sighed.

"Please be honest…"

Chloe paused in her work, her fingers fiddling relentlessly—obviously a nervous habit. She sighed deeply before finally answering truthfully, "At least one out of ten. Maybe two if we're lucky."

Sam huffed. He figured the number would be something like that. "Thanks. Sorry…for holding ya up."

"It's alright. I'm finished," she replied replacing his covers and smoothing them out. "Get some rest Sam. Something tells me, before you know it, something will be available." She left hastily.

Sam huffed again. Apparently he had made things incredibly awkward for her. She was a sweet person, but definitely blunt as Hell. It wasn't like he could help it; he needed to be realistic. Things were just never easy for him. Well, looking at how his life had shaped out, he couldn't say he wasn't deeply surprised.

He was about to take a swan dive back into oblivion when he heard Chloe out in the hallway. She wasn't speaking loud, but it was audible enough for him to hear. There was someone else there, and picking up the deep baritone voice, it had to be Bresley. He concentrated hard on what echoed amongst the walls…

"…caught you. Um…I just checked on Sam's vitals and they've dropped below sixty-five percent. Yesterday they were hovering around seventy-five." She sounded a bit concerned.

He heard a deep sigh. "I was afraid of that. His cardiac output is not maintaining, even with the pacemaker. If the numbers drop anywhere below fifty, he could slip into a coma at anytime. We're losing him a lot faster than I anticipated."

"What can we do?"

There was a pause. A long, long pause.

Finally Sam heard, "We'll try another method. I'll probably put him on a LVAD. That should buy us some time, but not much. He needs a donor now. Without it, there isn't a chance…Alright, what I want you to do Chloe is to get on the phone. Call around to other facilities, check to see if they'll make an exception…or put out an emergency calling. Call the National Center if need be. Try to find any large, O blood type, RH negative available."

"Doctor Bresley, you know how those vultures are."

"I know, but sometimes you gotta break out the claws to get what you need."

"If we can't find one soon, how much longer do you think Sam has?"

Again, there was another long pause. Sam could feel the sweat breaking out over his brow.

"It's hard to say," Bresley spoke up once more. "But my guess is, if his vitals are anything to go by, a week, maybe two if we're lucky."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. Over the nurse's gasp of sadness, he couldn't stop the terrible convulsing action his body begun. A week? Maybe two? That's all he had left?

He tried to concentrate on his breathing. The inhales and exhales were becoming harder with each passing minute. Hearing those words that his illness was officially terminal, and in so short of a time span left no less, was a lot more than he was able to swallow. It practically sent his emotions into overdrive.

Glancing around, he noticed the bland walls, the uncomfortable silence—besides the terrible beeping of his heart monitor—the antiseptic smell, the chilly covers…it was too much. No way in Hell was he going to pass off into the light in a dreadfully boring place without hot nurses and chocolate pudding.

His puffy eyes swiveled around frantically in their sockets. Seeing the door only a few yards away, his mind was set. He couldn't last another minute. Instantly he pulled off the nasal cannula, and yanked out the IV plugs in his right hand and left elbow, where trickles of blood began to exude from the holes. Sluggishly moving his hand up to his chest, he pulled at the wires—hearing them come off with a slurping pop.

Apparently his mind had to have become addled sometime during his stay because he totally had forgotten the machine's alarms were set and armed. Once he removed his chest sensors, the monitors began wailing. Frightened, he scrambled out of his blankets—the task all the more arduous when he was weak as a kitten and his mind as functional as a toaster on batteries.

A few seconds later, to his dismay, Bresley and Chloe, along with another nurse flooded into the room. Immediately they rushed towards him and pinned him back down to the mattress. It must have been sheer willpower, because in his haste of longing escape, he fought back. Pushing. Shoving. Swiping his hands. The two nurses gained a good grip, forcing him back. He couldn't understand what they were saying. He couldn't interpret anything. Everything was so muddled. But one thing was clear: the staff didn't want him to leave. They pried at him, grabbed, scratched. Like demons clinging onto their victims before escaping out of the molten chamber of torture.

"No! No! Let me go! Let me go!" he cried out.

"Sam, please. Calm down. You can't move," one of the disheveled nurses called out.

"NO! I can't stay here. Dean? Where are you? Dean!" Sam fought some more, kicking his long legs out furiously. "Please. I can't die here. Let me go."

Bresley holding down his shoulder blade turned to the red-head beside him. "Janet. Go get a sedative."

Hearing that, Sam exploded in a combination of fear, panic, and anxiety. Using whatever strength he had left, he shoved them all off his chest. "NO. I GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!" he shrieked. "GO AWAY!"

"Sam, you need to calm down," Chloe desperately ordered.

"NO. Nonononono," he slurred. Rapidly twisting out of the nurse's clutches, he rolled off accidentally falling to the floor. A strained mixture of a groan and yell escaped from his throat as thousands of jarring spasms exploded in his right side.

"Please, I…d-don't want to die!"

…

Dean had, at last, pulled the final rainbow colored rubber band off his head, shaking out and mussing the rest of his hair. Though he would admit he loved the little girl, but boy, does she cause a lot of pain? He laughed, thinking about the past couple of hours. He hadn't that much fun since he was a kid.

The stroll to the cancer ward was a long one, one that he appreciated much. With the amount of time he had spent sitting on his tush, he was sure his ass was flat by now…either that or he was on his way to develop a pilonidal cyst. He shivered at that thought. _Gross!_

He ran up the stairwell to the fifth floor with renewed vigor. It had been way too long since he took a joyful run. The nostalgic energy felt powering, almost regrettable in having only two flights of stairs to climb up. He hopped through the exit door, excitably putting a lift in his pace to return back to his brother's room. Not a second later, his name was hollered out…or rather "Hey Idjit" was the name reverberating off the empty walls.

Dean stopped and turned his attention to his caller. "Hey Bobby," he said with mirth. "Glad to see you're up and rolling. Where's the cane?"

Bobby scowled. "If you don't want to see the light of day again boy, keep it up."

"I'm just saying, you're getting old there, old man!"

"Yeah, well, has anyone told you your head looks like a duster twisted up and yanked out of a chicken's ass!" retorted the cane-less old man, resulting in a very stunned and speechless Winchester. "That's what I thought. How's Sammy?"

"Doing better. I just left to bring Kylie back to her regular ward and I'm on my way back to him now. Kid should be asleep."

"Any news?"

"Nah. None so far. Or at least they haven't mentioned anything as of yet. So for the most part, we're still waiting."

"Good! You know that you don't have to worry about the bills, now that Sioux has our back."

"Oh I know. I still can't believe the city brought out the Brink's truck. What'd you say to them?"

Bobby shook his head. "Nothing. They wanted to meet with me that day, and they presented it as their gift for all your hard work in saving those kids. Of course, I had to take their offer. Who wouldn't?"

"Exactly." Dean let out a large relieved sigh. "Ah, feels good not to worry about how much this place charges by the minute. So thanks for taking care of that. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, how much Sam does."

"Don't mention it. It's the least I could've done."

"You're…" Dean broke off hearing a commotion coming down the hall. "What's going on?" As he neared, his heart began to pulse strongly in his throat, realizing that the shouting and the bustling resonated from his brother's room. There was a long and loud pained yell. He took off at a dead sprint, recognizing just who had made that sound.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean veered into the room, skidding to a halt at the sight of his his brother struggling on the floor. "SAM!" he lurched forward.

"No. No. No," Sam chorused out, beginning to crawl away. "I can't stay here. I want to go home."

"Sammy, stop it. Sammy?" Dean knelt down to the boy, who was wild with panic. He pulled on Sam's underarms, but his stubborn little brother continued to struggle forward. Bresley and Chloe stood back in alarm.

Bobby bent down and picked up Sam's other shoulder, helping Dean pull him up onto his knees. "Noooo," Sam screamed gyrating out of their grasp and falling onto his back. Dean and Bobby grabbed a hold of both of his wrists. Continuing to fight them with his arms outstretched, Sam cried out breathlessly, "I can't stay here. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I want to go home. Let me go home. Please! Home! Dean, please take me home!"

"Sammy. Stop. It's me. It's your brother," Dean called fretfully. His overall concern for his sibling upped the ante, especially when Sam was discombobulated and oblivious to his call. "Sam, please stop."

His brother started coughing. Harsh hacks wracked through Sam's body, and he turned over on his side, panting heavily. The team moved in, but Dean waved his hand, motioning for everyone to back off. Bobby understood the order and relinquished his grasp, standing apart along with the rest of the staff. Dean wrapped an arm around his sibling's back and pulled him up, resting Sam's wobbly head onto his shoulder. Sam continued to cough, forcing Dean to keep his chin elevated.

"That's it. That's it. Breathe. As we have done time and time again, concentrate Sammy," he voiced.

Sam's eyes were at half-mast, his chest heaving greater than Dean had seen. He lowered his head onto Sam's, calmly issuing comfort. "Shhh. Shhh. I'm here. I'm here, just take a deep breath."

And Sam slowly began to do so. After a couple more severe coughs, he managed a deep breath. A red-headed nurse came pelting through the doorway taking out a syringe. Dean pushed it away, gazing murderously at the woman. "No, back off. Give him a minute. He's starting to come through. Just…not now."

At the spitted venomous tone, the nurse nervously stepped away. She and the others allowed the time Dean had demanded. Soon Sam was out like a light in his brother's arms, his breathing deep and ragged. Dean refused to give up his embrace, still holding him tight. He couldn't…just wouldn't let him go.

He casually looked around. It seemed the staff and Bobby were at ease again.

At ease was no where near to what Dean felt. A wave of misery crammed into him, pounding into his heart as though it were a sledgehammer. His brother wanted out, away; and he couldn't blame him—this place did give him the creeps. If the tables were reversed and he was in Sam's shoes, fighting off a heart infection, destined to die, he'd be in the same boat—preferring to die elsewhere and fighting every which way he could.

Uncertainty and anguish settled on his mind, and he couldn't think—couldn't move. Glumly, he watched the staff pick up his heavy sibling and carry him back to the bedspread. He fully understood Sam's behavior. If Sammy's little psychotic episode was anything to go by…Sam was about to explode. Caught; torn between depression and a desire to live. It never occurred to Dean that it could escalate to this point where Sam tried to make a break for it. And he wondered just what had instigated the frightening panic attack.

But really, whatever had released the fireworks in Sam's dramatic escape plan wasn't the main issue. Discovering whoever or whatever had started it wouldn't fix the dilemma. The problem was that Sam was dying, and at the moment, there wasn't a damn thing he or anyone could do about it. It seemed…hope had failed.

Languorously pulling himself up, Dean stared at his brother sadly. He had to do something. He was already losing Sam physically. He had to do something now…anything, before he lost him spiritually.

**Told ya, the tension was back. But no worries, the next chapter many of you might appreciate. Dean does something and his brother will love him forever for it. We're getting closer to the end and of course to the big reveal. Hope ya'll are still with me.**


	20. Welcome Home

**Alrighty then! You can relax for now! This chapter mainly is to be another breather. And yes, I'm pretty sure there are all sorts of medical fallacies in this one, but for the time being, we're going to ignore those! ;) Get comfortable, this is probably my longest chapter yet! Enjoy! Title from Coheed and Cambria!**

**Chapter Nineteen:**

**Welcome Home**

Dean was fairly certain it was a blessing to not be facing a mirror at that exact moment, because he was pretty positive he would have horrified himself. His face was flushed; his skin smoldering with temper, and his eyes wild with franticness. The recent wild circus act performed by his sick little brother was all too fresh, and he was under extreme duress to expose just what exactly triggered it.

"What in the Hell happened?" His voice was hardy and demanding, ringing harshly against the small office wall. The three, the two nurses and the doc, were, as usual, a bit slow in the uptake of answering simple questions. Dean stared them down. Something had caused his brother to have a meltdown. His near-neurotic mind had gone haywire with countless possibilities, but he needed to hear first-hand from the staff their side of the story. He had to help his brother, but he couldn't do that without the last piece of the puzzle.

The staff all exchanged unsure and ignorant glances. All the training in the world couldn't have prepared them for this situation. It was blatantly evident that they hadn't a single clue of what caused the impromptu panic attack, and were all too dumbstruck to give a viable answer.

Dean shot Bobby a fleeting look, noting the old man slumped within the cushioned chair resting his chin on a grubby hand, staring hard at the adjacent wall. He was thinking as well, also stressed to a degree after the incident. Dean turned back to the staff, letting out an exasperated huff. "Come on guys. Something happened. He wouldn't just go berserk like that unless something happened, or…or he overheard something. Chloe? You were the last one with him. What did you say?"

The blonde nurse shrugged, visibly pale. "I didn't say anything. He was fine when I left him. He asked me a simple question and he asked me to answer honestly…and so I did. And he was fine."

"What did he ask?"

Chloe, Dean noticed, continually began to transition a shade paler. Whatever it was, it was downright obvious that she was fearful of falling into the "trouble-trap". "I'm sorry. I didn't want to answer him, but he was adamant. All he wanted to know was a statistic…and I gave him the honest answer," her voice shook at Dean's hardened stare. "He wanted to know…to know if there was hope."

"That's it?" Dean shook his head in confusion. "That doesn't add up. We already had a Vulkan mind-meld over that. There had to be something else that freaked him out."

"Oh God!" Chloe suddenly exclaimed, shifting a watery gaze to Bresley. "You don't think he overheard us, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous Chloe, he couldn't have," Bresley replied. "We were out in the hallway. There was no way he could have heard our conversation."

That alerted Dean's attention. "What conversation?"

Chloe sighed. "Some of the numbers didn't add up and I voiced my concerns. We were trying to think of other procedures to help Sam."

Dean's vision narrowed. "Why do I get the sense that there was a lot more to it than that? You realize that chatting outside in these hallways do echo, like it's on a freaking megaphone. What exactly was said?"

Bresley cleared his throat, rising to his full stature. He had a look about him that Dean associated with in men who were about to deliver some really bad news. "Dean, we were talking about how much longer Sam had left. His vitals are steadily decreasing by each day, at a much faster rate than I or anyone else had anticipated. At this current rate, I estimate maybe a week, maybe two at the most he has to live. And I'll bet my bottom dollar that's what Sam overheard."

Dean could feel his heart pump faster at the revelation. His face drained; pale, bloodless from the shocking impact, his knees choosing that moment to become wobbly. His lip trembled and he could feel himself begin to list.

Luckily Bobby saw the subtle effects and immediately hopped up, placing a couple sturdy hands under his arms and lowering him down into the accommodating chair. Dean couldn't feel his legs. His heart hammered loudly in his ears and all he could think about was… "Only a week? Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!" He covered his mouth. "Oh Sammy! Are you absolutely sure it's just a week?"

"Maybe two?" The doctor's tone was insensitive, void of all emotion, and it made it just that much harder to bear. "We're going to put him on a LVAD. It's a Left Ventricular Assist Device and that'll buy us some time. As soon as we're done here, we'll put a call out to anyone to see if there is anything available now. I hate to be blunt about it, but there isn't much time left and we're doing all that we can."

Dean nodded his understanding, aware that his complexion might have turned a shade green. Nausea assaulted his stomach cavity, in turn forcing him to take deep long breaths.

"My only concern now is that, if we do find something, will his body be strong enough to go through surgery, and of course, will he be able to sustain the heart if his body doesn't reject it?" Bresley voiced.

A small chuckle of discontent erupted. Dean eyed the man ruefully. "The list just keeps going on, doesn't it Doc?"

"I'm sorry…I am, and I wish I had better news," Bresley returned the look. "But I have to go. Not only do I have other terminally ill patients, but I have to find your brother a heart. In the meantime, he just needs his rest. We'll attach the LVAD later tonight." He made to leave.

"Doc? One more thing," Dean called out. The seriousness plastered over his face was slightly unnerving. "Would Sam stand a strong chance if I take him out of here?"

Bresley paused, gazing at the man as though he was in need of a psych evaluation. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, what?" Bobby proclaimed.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean responded sourly. "I've been giving this a fair bit of thought for a while now… and Sam's outburst is the kicker. Sammy's not going to last much longer in here. You've made that crystal clear. So I need to get him out of here…just outside these walls for a little bit."

"That's out of the question!" Bresley's baritone voice raised an octave. "Even if it were okay, it's insane to think he can merely stroll out of here like he's not suffering from heart failure."

"He's going to be far worse off if he stays here. Think of it as a set of dynamite left at a power-plant. It'll be twice as big as Chernobyl if I don't do something. I know him. You want him to last for another couple of weeks? You need to let me do this. Take him out for an afternoon, just one afternoon."

"Mr. Winchester, I cannot take the chance of losing…"

"Doc, I'm losing my baby brother right now as it is." To add to the effect, Dean's eyes misted. "Please? It's just one afternoon. We'll…we'll keep him in a wheelchair; take an O2 tank or whatever. Please, I'm begging ya here. He needs this."

The doctor stared long and hard at the beggar. Dean could see in those brassy eyes that he was debating furiously over the current proposition. And so, Dean felt it in his power to unleash his version of the "Puppy-Dog" eyes. Time to bring out the guns! Whatever arsenal he could muster in this last ditch effort.

And for once in the entirety of ill-fated attempts at his brother's main weapon, it worked! It was a grand minute before the tall doc finally gave in. Bresley issued out a long and constrained sigh. "Fine, but you do not go any farther than a two mile radius of this place. You keep him on that pacemaker, don't touch it; don't even look at it. I'll give you a pager to have on standby, and if there's so much as a hiccup, I want him back here then, you read me?" Bresley glared.

"You got it." Dean flashed a chiseled smirk.

"Good. Don't make me regret this. I'll have Janet help you. Have fun." With a final glare and a casual smile, Bresley left the room with haste onward to his other duties. The other two nurses followed behind.

Dean shakily stood up whirling around to face a troubled Bobby. The old man's jaw hung agape, in utter bewilderment at the so-called plan. "What's up with you? Why would you even think to take that risk knowing what condition Sam is in right now?"

"I have to. You heard Sammy, Bobby. He can't stand another moment in here. He needs this."

Bobby's concerned gaze grew worse. "And what's going to happen if something goes wrong? What if he has another attack?"

Dean couldn't do anything else but shrug. "We'll deal with it then."

Bobby huffed. "Well, that's the biggest load of cod-swallow I've ever heard. I sure hope you know what you're doing."

"I do. Believe it or not, I do," Dean shrugged again. "And I don't know how, but something tells me this is right. That nothing will happen. That…this will actually help Sam."

"What is it you have running around inside that skull of yours, boy?"

A heartwarming grin befell over Dean's features, the lasting effects of the shock washing away. "He wants to go home… so I'm taking Sammy home."

…

With a slight hop to his step, Dean and the nurse Janet entered the silent asylum towards a sleeping and unsuspecting sibling. Gently, Dean shook Sam's shoulder causing the dying man to give rise to bleary eyes. The dark circles beneath his orbits deepened and the stark complexion brightened upon recognition. To his dismay, he immediately saw sadness, an abysmal hole of nothingness, and it puzzled him. Sam was afraid to look at him.

"Hey buddy, how ya hanging?" Dean asked quietly.

His brother drew in a staggered breath. "Go…away Dean. D-don't look…at me."

The sudden rudeness was understandable. Sam was humiliated by their last meeting, in utter abhorrence at his lack of control. But Dean just kept on smiling. "Well suck it up Sammy. I'm looking at cha, and you've got nothing to be embarrassed about. Now come on, let's get you dressed."

Sam looked to him in confusion. "What?"

Dean placed the plastic bag he held in his hand on the bed, pulling out a pair of jeans, a polo, and a hefty jacket. He shrugged. "We're getting out of here for an afternoon. Talked to the doc, pulled a couple of strings, and he allowed ya to get out of this stinking bed for a change."

Sam's look of puzzlement deepened. "Why?" he asked breathlessly.

Dean paused in draping out the set of pants and stared at his brother incredulously. "You seriously did not just ask that? We're getting out of here. Doc says we can take a hike seeing as your psychotic episode might happen again. Well played, I might add. It might just work the next time, you know?"

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched, and Dean could see in his dull greens that he was beaming. "So come on, sit up. Help us out a bit, unless, of course, you want to go nude?"

"J-j-jerk," was the snappy comeback.

"Cool, so then let's get a move on. Seriously, it's bad enough it takes two people to get you dressed. Try that when you're lying like a sack of potatoes. It ain't happening!"

"Whatever."

Ten minutes later, Sam was fully dressed. Janet and Dean pulled him off the bedspread, detaching the two IV ports and nasal cannula, and placing him into a wheelchair. Janet took out an extra blanket from under the mechanical bed and spread it over the long out-of-shape legs. Sam smiled appreciatively as Dean began to roll him out.

"D-do I-I have to s-stay in this," Sam asked.

"Yep. Doctor's orders. Don't sweat it roller-boy. I won't drive into too many walls."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes…you…will."

Very soon, the two were at the exit door. The double glass panes slid away and revealed a sight that forever will keep a dent in Sam's degenerating heart. The pained lines etched across his brow smoothed away, the ache in his limps soothing to a slight dullness; even the constant breathlessness was put on hold: all in favor of the beauty that bedazzled him.

It was the Impala. Its sleek black exterior glistened in the winter sun; the smoke-exhaust flying high against the cool, crisp air. Its engine purred loud, singing softly in his ears, as though welcoming him back. Dean rolled him up to the awaiting vehicle, selflessly guiding him back to his rightful place in shotgun.

Sam opened his sensitive eyes, instantly squinting against the not-too-bright sunlight shining upon them. Once adjusting, he immediately recognized his surroundings in the old girl. The tan interior was the same. The distinct smell of clean leather (obviously thanks to Dean's notorious and possibly unhealthy habit of polishing it regularly) and burnt rubber reminded him of what he missed. Shakily he ran his hands over the smooth dashboard as if taking in as much as possible, fearing he might forget one of the most important things in his life.

Despite feeling incredibly weak and dependent, this was the only ever time in the last month or so a full strong and healthy smile flourished across his pale face, his graying eyes lit up with an intensity that could possibly out-dazzle a diamond. He was happy to be back in shotgun of his favorite car. He was happy to be _home_.

"Give me a minute. I gotta go get our little ball of sunshine," Dean informed him after folding up and placing the wheelchair and the portable O2 tank in the back seat. "I left her in the gift shop with my credit card. Gotta go get her before she buys out the whole store!" He left quickly, jogging back inside.

"Oh," Sam snorted. He sighed affectionately feeling for the first time in weeks at peace, leaning his head back on the headrest. A couple minutes later, Dean exited the building carrying an over-bundled ten-year-old. The little girl looked more like the State Park Marshmallow man—only in pink—she was so wrapped up. He placed her in the back seat, strapping on the seat belt, as her jacket was so big, Sam didn't think she could move her arms.

"Hi Sambo," Kylie squeaked, stiffly waving a tiny mittened hand.

"Hey Kylie," Sam whispered in reply. "L-looks…like we're…going on a…roadtrip."

"Yay! About time I get outta there," Kylie beamed. "Sometimes this place gives me the heebie-jeebies. And the other kids? Jeez, sometimes I wish bath time was everyday instead of every three days."

"I know what you mean."

"Hey Dean, can we go get lunch. I'm starving!" She called out.

Dean shot her an incredulous glance in the rear-view mirror. "How? You just went through half the candy section in the gift shop!"

"But I'm still hungry," Kylie pouted, flipping down her bottom lip.

Dean shook his head in amusement. "Alright, sure. There's a place I know about a couple miles from here. I guess that's our first stop."

…

The Silver Diner was much the same way it was during Dean's last visit. The customers were friendly, jesting, carrying on with their day, and the waiters and waitresses were cheerful and genuine, as if they were actually enjoying their job. It was exactly the type of cozy atmosphere Dean longed to bring Sam and Kylie into. Every person eyed the three as they entered, but not a single one had a sense of pity in their eyes.

Dean flagged a merry smile and trudged on towards the back, issuing out a skidding noise as he rolled Sam up to a designated handicapped table. Afterward it was only logical to help strip their little ray of sunshine out of her overly plump pseudo ski-suit. All the while, Dean tried desperately to suppress a laugh as the scene from the _Christmas Story_ played out in his head. Only God knew then how he was going to get Kylie back into the suit.

"Good grief girl!" Dean exclaimed breathlessly dropping the fuchsia warmers off to the side and guiding the little girl into the booth. "I think giving birth is easier."

"Tell me about it!" Kylie jeered. "Try wearing it. Deano, can I get dessert?"

"After your lunch," Dean answered taking a seat. "Hey Sammy, whatcha in the mood for? Burger? Sandwich? I hear they've got some good Philly Steak and cheese. What d'ya say?"

Sam could barely lift his head to answer. He ogled the linoleum tabletop and its tangled red and purple lines. Quietly he said, "M'not very hungry Dean. I don't know if I can eat anything."

"Well you need to. Can't fight a heart condition on an empty stomach," Dean pacified. "How bout' we getcha some soup. Maybe that'll be better. At least try."

"Okay," Sam mumbled in defeat. He hardly had the spit to argue anyhow.

"Well I'll take that burger," Kylie piped. "I'll take his too!"

Much to Dean's inner protests, he ordered the burger for Kylie, but two soup specials for him and his brother. He figured if his brother had to watch what he ate, he might as well help him out in not bragging about what Sam can and cannot have. The waitress, a young brunette, immediately recognized Sam was sick, but said nothing except give an eloquent smile and reassurance of quick service. She took their orders and hurried away.

The noise of the restaurant suddenly upped an octave. Amongst the babble, several loud and grating crows and squalls echoed from a booth across the vicinity. A group of jocks all adorned in blue and red jerseys banged their fists, shouting, and laughing at what presumably was a riveting joke.

Sam cringed slightly against the noise. Having noticed the pained expression, Dean curtly called out to the gang to put a cork in it. He, too, just had enough of "Your Mama" jokes to last him a lifetime. The group sneered back, a few giving the "finger", and others voicing derogatory statements…that Dean had to admit if he wasn't on caregiver duty at the moment, he would have pummeled the snots to a pulp. His fingers flexed with the longing. It had been way too long since he had hit something!

"Dean," Sam admonished. Dean immediately settled, switching his attention to the little alcohol cardboard ad.

It wasn't long before the waitress had returned with their meals, carefully setting the bowl and crackers in front of Sam. His arm plopped down seemingly devoid of life as he made a grab for the spoon. The sides of his face grew taut and strained, alerting Dean that he was becoming impassively frustrated. And frustration wasn't a good thing.

Innately Dean slid through the U-shaped seat and sat by the wheelchair, picked up the utensil, filled it with the creamy essence of chicken noodle soup, and presented it to Sam's mouth. His brother shot him a glare, both indignant and appreciated. Dean could see the little wheels in Sam's head turning. He needed to eat, but hardly had the energy to complete the task himself, and so the only option left was to be fed like an infant. It was degrading in every sense of the word. But at long last, Sam finally came to the conclusion that there wasn't any other choice. He opened his mouth slightly and allowed Dean to go about the privileged duty.

At the nod of the head, Dean saw to his relief that Sam enjoyed it. He prepared him another spoonful. After the third spoon-feeding, more sonorous heckles reverberated from the jocks. They all glanced over to see the five or so monkeys watch interestedly like second graders behind a zoo glass; their heads in sync following the spoon action. They cawed and guffawed as Dean fed his brother again. He continually shook his head to rid of the irritation accumulating.

"Hey Fags, get a room." One of the bullies called out.

"Yeah, I hear there's one a couple blocks from here. Hope he doesn't charge much!" Another called out.

"Hee haw…hee haw…" another wondrously shouted.

Dean could feel the rushing effect of his blood pumping through his ears. If the ass-clowns had called out one more taunt—child with them or no child with them—there was going to be a major ass-kicking, ending in five new grave posts.

Soon the taunts and insults died down as the young waitress brought over their orders, heatedly slamming down the plates, resulting in 'oohs' and demeaning 'aww baby, don't be like that' remarks. She gave them all a stiff shoulder returning to the back, as the monkeys went about gorging disgustingly into their meals. Soon she made her way back out to the Winchester's table refilling their drinks.

"So sorry about that," she apologized. "They come in here all the time and they're real big jerks. Hardly ever leave a tip either."

"It's alright. They'll get what's coming to them. Everybody does," Dean reassured.

"Uh huh. I know exactly what you mean," she leaned forward for them all to hear. "All of us behind the reg spit in their food and Ernie, our flipper in the back, made their buns extra warm if you get my drift." She finished with a wink. "Enjoy your meal!"

All three chuckled harshly; Kylie having to hold her side to keep from bursting with laughter. "That's so bad. I love it!"

~o~

Twenty minutes later, Sam was gently sipping his drink through an elongated straw watching his brother's bewildered expression. Kylie had long finished her meal and was focused on bending and creating new architecture-esque structures with plastic straws—constantly asking for more from the waitress to add to her masterpiece. Dean eyed her in a daze, utterly flabbergasted at how the young child could entertain herself with so little.

She finished not too long after with what was possibly a tower…no, just a tangle of plastic…something?

"Kylie, what is it that you're building?" Dean asked her.

"Heaven," was the small reply.

The answer took both Sam and Dean by the throat. Sam sent Dean a curious glance to which Dean shrugged off stupidly. "Heaven?" He reiterated.

"Yeah. A long time ago a lady came into my room and read me and the rest of us a story about God and his angels. She said that they live in Heaven and that one day all of us will go there. She showed us a picture," she pointed at her creation. "See, these are the gates—" she tapped the long straws, before pointing to a ball—"and that's the sun. All of these little squigglies are clouds. I don't know, I was really sick one time and that picture was all I can think about."

"It's pretty," Sam spoke up.

"Do you think this is what Heaven really looks like?" Kylie asked.

Dean's shocked expression grew larger…if that was even possible. Sam could clearly see he was stumped, and not at all eager to discuss what the little girl had instigated—or remark that the so-called "lady" was probably a religious nut. "Uh…I don't know. Yes. Well I hope there's one," Dean stuttered.

Sam tried to suppress a snort. Just from the smallest twitches and the tapping fingernails, he could see Dean was really uncomfortable and was in dire need of a strong drink.

"Uh huh, me too! And these"—she pointed to the little spiral straws—"are angels. The lady showed me a picture of them too. She said that there are different ones, but the ones she really liked the most were the guardian angels. She said you never know when one is around. Do you believe in angels, Deano?"

"Uh Kylie…uh, I'd rather not say." Dean answered curtly. He didn't mean to, but this subject was a bit too sore for him. Several images of his dying mother and father zoomed by, posting up large and clear in his head; a terrible pain igniting. He couldn't stop thinking about what his mother had said to him as a child… "Angels are watching over us"…and to think, where were they when they had to scrape her remnants off the ceiling? She died in agony, killed by an evil monster. If she had prayed to these guys on a nightly basis, why did not they come to her rescue?

His father too! Where were they when he just upped and died? If these guys were the so-called guardians and protectors of humanity, then why couldn't they intervene during his and Sam's childhood? Why must they have taken on the battle of evil with no backup?

There were too many occurrences, too many happenings, of tragedy and pain; none that came easy to get through. And course now that Sam only had a week left to live, were are they now?

The answer was simple. They. Do. Not. Exist!

But how exactly do you relay that to a hopeful ten year old suffering from Leukemia.

"You don't?" the child pressed.

"Uh…" Dean rubbed the back of his head. "It's a little hard to explain. But uh…uh…how about that dessert, you want some?"

"What do you think Kylie? Do you believe in angels?" Sam asked.

A twinkle sprouted in Kylie's baby blue eyes. She smiled genuinely and nodded excitably. "My mom doesn't. She hardly ever thinks outside her work anyway. But my dad does. I asked him about it and he said that lady was right. So yeah, I think they do. How else have I been getting better? And I like to think that my angel's around," she sent a short surreptitious glance towards an oblivious Dean.

Sam snorted. That was too comical in his opinion.

"What does your dad think?" Kylie asked innocently.

"Um…" Sam faltered at the thought. He hadn't thought about his dad in a long time. He looked to Dean in hopes that he would be able to curb the kid's curiosity. Only he noticed how tense Dean became, and it slightly perked his attention. Anytime his brother grew that solid with that type of seriousness marring his handsome face, Dean was angry, or worse, suffering from a terrible burden and was at any minute about to unleash holy hell.

"Dean? You okay?" Sam asked quietly. He gently prodded his shoulder.

Dean jerked out of his temporary daze, completely unaware that he zoned out. Two sets of eyes lay upon him and he shrunk back a bit alarmed. "What? What was the question?"

"Does your dad believe in angels?"

Immediately his expression became doleful. He hesitated at first, but ultimately said, "I don't know. I don't know if he did. I want to think he believed; it might have helped with things in the long run, but I just don't know. I can tell you some part of me wants to believe there is such a place and that he's in it right now."

Kylie gasped. "He's…"

"He died…last year," Dean answered calmly. "But don't worry sport, he was a great man. Can find none better. So? How about that dessert?"

"Okay!" The child brightened up, grabbing her menu.

For a short moment, Dean had to look away. The echoing loop of his father's last words to him constantly rebounded in his head; to the point, where it was destabilizing his sanity. He bit his lip, fighting to carry on with the day and not be hassled with the burden his father left. This was supposed to be a good day, and even if it killed him, he was going to make it a good day.

Little did he realize that his brother watched every tiny movement, studied every twitch and tremor; finally coming to the conclusion that there was indeed something wrong.

…

Shortly after their meal, Dean decided to take the two to the park. Sure hideous blocks of ice and snow waylaid their surroundings, and there was a wind-chill of twenty, and your sweat froze on impact; but the whole point was to get his brother to feel the cool air, admire the scenery, take in the serene quality of nature, or whatever poetic bit you can think of. Sam wanted out! Well, on a day in February in North Dakota? Crisp and chilly was obviously the way it had to be. Luckily, however, the sun was set high and bright, adding sweet warmth to the chill. It was perfect. _Too perfect_ in Dean's opinion. It slightly freaked him out!

Striated beams of sunlight broke through the scraggly canopies of the long line of trees. Patches of snow dripped. Icicles formed at the tip of the branches, glinting, giving the appearance of a beautiful world of ice. There were even a few sparrows that whistled and flew by. Gatherings or the usual stray couple strolled along the walkway, hand in hand, flashing enamored smiles. Each one of them said hello or gave a short salute of acknowledgement.

_Yep_, Dean thought, _I was right to do this_.

Eventually he parked Sam by a bench. "Are you going to be alright here Sammy? It'll just take a minute."

"No, go on. I'll…" Sam took a deep breath. "I'll…be fine."

"Okay," Dean turned to Kylie who was hopping in her marshmallow jumpsuit. "Why didn't you go when we were at the restaurant?"

"Hello! Little bladder! And it's about to burst!" She squeaked. "Besides did you see how much Dr. Pepper she put in my cup?"

"Alright, be right back Sammy! Remember I'm number One on speed dial. If you feel bad in anyway…"

"Dean, I got to go!"

"Okay!" He took her hand and left at a small jog. "Just hang dude!"

"No sweat."

Sam watched the two run down the street. He took a deep breath, a bit curious how the pull of icy air came easily, even without the additional aid of the O2 tank. A small chill undulated up and through his spine, but he took no care in it. His mind was set on all the surroundings. The icicles. The birds. The hibernating trees. He never thought he was going to see the outside world again. This time, he made sure not to blink. He couldn't take the chance of forgetting a single detail.

Eying the park bench, an inner motive kicked his ass into gear. He slowly rose from the chair, aching at the effect the movement had on his frail body, and clutching the yellow wooly blanket, staggered his way to the bench. Sitting upright on sturdy wood was relieving, alleviating the ache in his chest. He took another deep breath, afterward emitting a short cough.

"Hey you," a soft melodic voice said.

Sam shakily looked to the speaker, seeing it was a young woman. She was tall, dressed warm in a wool coat and boots, and had with her a pointy face and rosy complexion. Her eyes were dark, green like emeralds that irradiated in the protruding sunlight. She smoothed a pale hand over short hair and took a seat, gazing heartwarmingly at him—as if she knew him. Sam felt a little awkward. He didn't know how best to tell her she might have mistaken him for the wrong person.

"Hello," he croaked, his cheeks blushing at the scratchiness his voice exhibited.

"Do you remember me?" the woman asked sweetly.

"Uh," Sam looked away sheepishly. "I'm sorry…"

"It's Caroline." She donned a pacifying smile that Sam immediately felt numb to. "Caroline Carlyle. It's Tony, right?"

"Uh, no ma'me." Sam's cheeks grew brighter. "My name is Sam."

"Oh I'm so sorry. I do that all the time: mistake this person for that person. It's so silly of me." Her voice glided smoothly into his head and Sam could feel himself ever so gently fall under her sway. He shrugged away her apology. She squinted at him. "Are you okay? You seem a bit…"

"Sick. Weak. Pathetic." Sam interjected. "Crummy, like roadkill."

"Well," Caroline glanced away, "I was going to say a bit under the weather."

"Oh," Sam snorted softly.

Caroline continued to ogle him, as though studying him. She crossed a leg over another and clasped her hands together. "I don't mean to pry, but since I have to make up for my somewhat rude introduction, I'm just going to save you the trouble of explaining and guess. And I'm going to go out on a limb and say you're suffering from heart failure, led to by cardiomyopathy."

Sam's eyes widened. "How…"

"Let's just say I'm a specialist when it comes to saving lives," her gaze narrowed. "But only those who are in desperate need and who have earned their natural place."

Sam jerked at that statement. He didn't know why, but something about it sounded off. "I don't get…"

"I run a program for people with heart malfunctions," she immediately explained. "Strokes, cardiomyopathy, congenital degeneration; the whole nine. And so I'm pretty familiar with the look. I set up fundraisers for those who need it; give them the money they need for medical bills and treatment; so they don't have to worry about a thing except to get better…well, that's the goal theoretically."

Sam's breath caught in his throat, and he stared disconcertingly at the woman. "Y-yeah. Well, I came down…with dilated cardiomyopathy. And…it just kinda caught up with me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," those eyes of hers brightened. "So how did it happen, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Uh…I just…had a virus…and…and I didn't really take care of myself," he bowed his head in shame. "And now you see the result. I've been in and out of the hospital for over seven months."

Caroline fidgeted. "You seem rather…guilty about that."

"It's just…" He hesitated, a tad unsure if he should vent out his inner feelings to a complete stranger…but somehow there was a tiny voice saying to him it was right, to let go. "My family. I've put them through so much…especially my brother. They've gone through so much misery…and now I don't even know if I'm going to pull through."

"Don't say that…"

"It's true. I don't know. And it scares the holy hell out of me, because I don't know what my death is going to do to my family. I want to think they'll be fine without me, but I…I just don't know. And I'm…I'm really scared," he turned to her with watery eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be putting this on you."

"It's all right," her voice became soothing again. "It's good that you are. You need to let this pent-up emotion out, and if you can't confide in your family, who else other than a stranger?"

Sam shrugged.

"You need to know Sam it's all right to be scared. Heck, in a situation like this, I'd be more curious if you weren't. True, it's daunting to leave your family. So you use that to fight. You might be surprised how much we all will go through for family. That itself is another wonder of this world."

"Yeah. Sorry, you said you ran a program?"

"Yep, I—"

Caroline cut off at the several whistles and shouts sounding from behind. Both she and Sam turned around, and to Sam's agitation, saw it were the five hooligans from the restaurant. Sam rolled his eyes turning back around as the men approached. How was it that he is the proverbial magnet for gangs?

The bulkiest of them all stood out in the front—the supposed leader. He eyed Sam with a voracious hunger that Sam couldn't deny was insatiable hatred. Apparently these guys were the main poster boys for hate crimes, and it appeared as though they had found their next target. "So man, where's your boyfriend? Gone to get that room, ain't he? What else does he do, wipe your ass too?"

Sam stared away, the trapdoor of his inner rage beginning to teeter open. He bit the inside of his tongue to keep from mouthing off any sarcastic retorts. These guys were looking for a trigger and he wasn't going to give it to them.

"Excuse me?" Caroline spoke up, unenthused. "We were having a conversation and you are being very rude."

The jock set his fascist eyes on Caroline. "Oh I'm sorry, did we interrupt your little business deal? Eh, don't get your hopes up with this piece of shit. I think a curvy road might be straighter than this guy. But you know? Why don't you come home with a real man? It might make your while."

Caroline scoffed. "Sorry honey, but I don't settle for three inches or less."

The hooligans in the back all "oohed" and heckled. But the supreme chancellor merely shrugged. "Well you're in luck babe; got a solid six right here."

"That's all?" Caroline raised a tiny eyebrow. "Sorry, single digits aren't worth my time."

Sam snorted.

The jock glared. "You think that's funny, queer?"

"Don't you?" Sam remarked. "Unless, of course, that is you can't handle the truth?"

The fire lit; and the punk charged forward, having his motive. He latched a gorilla-sized hand around Sam's shoulder and pulled him off the bench, hurling his body towards the ground. Sam fell like a sack, unable to defend himself as the jock advanced. His cronies in the back all cawed and cheered like spectators at a pep rally. The jerk pounded a fist into his hand, obviously showing off the primitive territorial display.

A finger tapped the guy's shoulder. He turned around to receive a solid jaw-twisting punch to the face, forcing him to stumble away from his intended victim. The cronies all ceased their monkey howls of glee and stared on in surprise. Caroline stepped ahead, delivering a swift kick between the jock's legs. He grunted in pain, bending forward as she grabbed the back of his greasy head.

"This will teach you to not to pick on people," she whispered dangerously. "Next time you interfere, just think—" she gazed at him murderously—"you might end up dead."

She ended the lesson with a powerful knee to the man's chin. He went down like bag of concrete, his cronies quickly assembling to pick him up. With a final farewell, they began to jog away, carrying their pal. "That's right you little bastards," Caroline yelled. "Run back home to your mother…ya bunch of punkasses."

Diverting her attention back to Sam—winded and splayed out on the ground—Caroline reached out a hand in which Sam took gratefully. Surprisingly strong for a woman her size, she pulled him back up and onto the bench. "Sorry about that," she dusted the snow off, readjusting his beanie that went askew, "Men like that usually like to prey on the weak and helpless—no offense to you—probably compensating for their lack of balls. I can't stand people like that. It gets me riled up and I had to do something."

"N-n-no," Sam's teeth chattered and he replaced the blanket back on his lap. "T-they ha…had it coming. A-and u-uh…thank…thank you."

"No problem," she resumed her seat. "So Sam? What are you going to do from here?"

"W-what do you mean?"

She shrugged. "Are you going to keep fighting?"

He couldn't explain it, but suddenly he felt bare, real uncomfortable. "I…I…uh…"

"I ask that, because my sister quit. I recognize your symptoms because my baby sister went through the exact same thing," her eyes glistened with despondence. "Sarah became real sick with cardiomyopathy and that in turn led to heart failure. We waited for a long, long time and there was nothing available. No heart. No new procedure. No new avenue for hope. The doctors kept telling her to keep her head up high, but she didn't listen. The moment she received the news her illness was terminal, she gave up…and passed away that night."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. It was a long time ago. Times are different now and so I'm sure something will come available for you. I'm sure I'm just being optimistic…"

Sam huffed. "Optimism…is something…I sort of need…right now."

"Yeah," she agreed. "And I'm sure you've heard this plenty, but uh…here's my sliver of advice. Sarah quit fighting for herself mainly because she felt in her heart she could no longer fulfill her purpose. I begged for her to not to give up, but in return, she did. And so what I'm saying to you is keep your head up high. I fear that it will get bad. Even if you do survive, the fight has yet to begin. For all of us, really. And all we can do in the meantime is just keep fighting. For ourselves, for our family, for the world. You don't stop, and you don't give in."

Sam nodded, a little overwhelmed with the 'advice'. He turned to her with a bleeding expression, one with yearning for an explanation.

Caroline continued. "It will get hard, no doubt about it. But even if you don't think so, there are those who are listening, watching over us, and will be there for whomever that needs it. All you have to do is ask. Keep that in mind Sam." She checked her watch. "Oh, a little birdie tells me its time to go. I'm sure we'll see each other again. Take care now."

Still increasingly baffled by the conversation, Sam gave a brief nod in good-fashion. Caroline stood up, gripped his shoulder, and then casually walked away down the street. He looked after her, in wonder, thinking to himself just who exactly was she? And all the while he couldn't stop thinking to himself that perhaps for once his prayers were answered, that perhaps for once in his life, he had met an angel.

A radiant grin warmed over his bluing lips. He didn't think it was ever going to leave. It remained as the afternoon whisked by to night. It was still there as he lied upon his side with his head in his brother's lap as Dean, by his request, just drove and drove. The lingering effect of that smile continued to stay with him as the purr of the engine drew him into a deep and peaceful slumber. The doctors and nurses had mentioned it even as they gently pulled him from the seat and took him back inside.

For once in Sam Winchester's life, he was happy again. Nothing could dissolve that certain peace remaining limbo in his heart, not even the daunting task of the possible non-existent future. And he will forever cherish that.

**Phew…I think I have Carpal Tunnel now. That was a long one, but honestly this is my favorite chappie yet. I know Bobby wasn't in this much, and you're probably wondering why he didn't go with the boys' on thier little excursion. But all I can say is, you'll see where the old man had gone to. I hope you enjoyed the peace and quiet…cuz now we get back to the daunting and possibly non-existent future. Eager to know what you guys thought. Catch ya later. Tootles! **


	21. Heaven's A Lie

**HOLY COWLY-MOSES! I'M SO SORRRRYYYY! Yep, I said there would have been a short wait…well as most of you may have noticed by now, **_**that**_** was a lie. But I do have an excuse! More or less it came down to I had another nervous breakdown in while as I was typing this chapter up…it became so sappy, **_**I **_**couldn't even get through it. I mean it flat out was a drama-fest: full on teary eyed, raising fists to the air, screaming "why…oh why?" and all (it was that bad! O.O)…so I had to rewrite it. So again, sorry for the wait and hopefully it'll make up for it…hopefully! :p**

**Title from Lacuna Coil. **

**Chapter Twenty: **

**Heaven's a Lie **

Dean just grew sick, standing there, staring vividly through the window. Each time he caught sight of his morose reflection in the glossy pane, another shade of green was added. Any worse and he was sure he'd be able to audition for the play _Wicked_. But it wasn't like he could help it. Staring at the still form of his dying sibling was nauseating.

He was numb. Trapped in a void, in a pit of guilt, he knew deep down he couldn't be set free from. Sammy was dead…either dead or was drifting between the veil. There was no other explanation for the calm stillness, the continuous support of the ventilator, the use of all the other tubes and wires hooked up to the flaccid body. And he knew it had been his fault. His brother had asked for one simple thing, for once piece of solace, and he failed him in that respect.

Inside the room was a strange deafening _silence_: one that was eerie and calculating, rhyming in tune with the hollowness of his soul. It had been days he fought and struggled inwardly to remain in the room by his brother's side. Days since Sammy's eyes had taken a final bow without the promise of opening ever again. It had been then that Dean's heart had finally cracked in two.

Each week. Each day. Each minute he now felt he was standing back over that precipice, barely clinging on via a rope. The rope's fibers splintered and frayed, wilting away, the rope's strength dwindling along with the hope he once had fought so hard to endear.

Dean had to admit he knew it would come to this. It was- shall he think it?- inevitable. Sammy tried. He did. But nature had a different perspective on mercy. Days back, it had been so different. And still, it had chilled his bones thinking about those few days he had left with Sam.

Against the profound silence, the sound of rushing liquid hummed loudly in both his ears, forcing Dean to occasionally steal a glance. And each and every time he eyed the machine inserted into Sam's chest, he swore his face grew greener. The tubes protruding out of Sam's gown glowed red from the continual pumping action of the fragile heart. The heart monitor monotone beeping chorused on in the background, in sync with the device.

The doctors implanted what was called a LVAD device the evening Sam returned from his afternoon outing. Sam was asleep during the process, but the staff gave him a numbing agent as they had to create an incision through his upper abdomen and attach plastic tubes to the heart muscle. The machine, according to Dean's understanding, was battery operated, and consisted of tubes inserted into Sam's left ventricle and aorta. Mainly it was a pump that drew the blood from the left ventricle, cycled it through the machine, and pumped it back into the body to complete its circulation, so the rest of the heart muscle, theoretically, could take it easy.

Bresley explained it was mostly used for patients waiting on a transplant. The explanation still, however, hadn't mollified the shock of it all.

That was nearly a week ago. Dean stilled in watching his brother sleep. He couldn't discern which was more disturbing: the fact Sam hardly spoke a word, or the way his lips were a continual shade of blue now. Sam looked paler than before, and he was on one-hundred percent oxygen. He didn't need a translator. Sam had worsened and Dean feared for his sibling's seesaw of sanity as Sam was now completely bed-ridden. With the machine in place and the need for supplied oxygen, he couldn't move, stretch his legs, or do anything, his mobility limited. Luckily though, he had been mostly asleep during that time, so it helped…to an extent.

Kylie had come by now and again, abolishing whatever boredom Dean suffered, until she was forced back into her own room. It was times like that he wished Bobby would return sooner with the cats. At least then Dean would have something to play with.

He heard rustling; the source belonging to the ends of Sam's legs moving under the many flimsy blankets. Dean perked up in his seat, eager for his brother's return to the Real World. Slowly Sam's tepid eyelids lifted, momentarily struggling to remain open. Dean observed the action some more and noticed that Sam's facial was beginning to contort turning into a prolonged grimace of discomfort.

"Morning Sammy, you okay?" Dean gently glided a thumb over Sam's pale hand.

Sam's frown deepened, his eyes clamming up tightly. He tried to speak, his throat issuing out small groans. His brow creased over and over and that's when Dean understood the message. "You feel like you're about to hurl again, don't cha?"

His brother gave a tiny nod. "Okay? One sec," Dean replied pressing the call button. It was the typical norm for Sam to wake up feeling increasingly nauseated. With the new machine, the new beta blockers, and the continual supply of intravenous nutrients, Sam's system was out of whack, fighting nonstop to rebalance itself. Dean would be surprised if there was a spare moment in which Sam had felt anew, refreshed.

No matter what other method they tried: the water, the cooling blanket, or the breathing techniques worked in quelling the nausea—which if not controlled, would result in dry heaves, applying more pressure on Sam's heart. Ultimately it came down to a nice _antiemetic_ to control the nausea.

Chloe came through the door, practically skidding in her soles. "Everything okay?" she asked panting.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean was quick to pacify. "Sorry for the scare, but Sam's about to go Exorcist. He might blow chucks any minute. Is that medicine you use on standby?"

"Uh," the nurse muttered, thinking fast. "Yeah. Yeah, give me a second and I'll be right back."

"Okay thanks." Dean turned his attention back to Sam. "Hear that. She's bringing ya some juice, so just hang tight."

Sam didn't answer, as expected. He hardly ever answered to anything now. Throughout the last couple days, his health had taken a major setback. By the twinkle in the grayish eyes, Dean could tell Sam was fighting. He was fighting with every cell and fiber he had, but it just wasn't enough.

During that time, Dean noticed Sam's continual stage of disorientation. Bresley explained that it was normal with heart patients, in which the blood wasn't being pumped efficiently to the brain. There would be times where Sam would have a moment's lapse and couldn't remember where they were, or would have suddenly gone in a daze during the midst of a conversation. Also there were times where he couldn't remember certain facts like what their previous occupation was. It would scare Dean, because sometimes Sam would look at him like he was a stranger; his mind gone astray, his speech constantly slurring.

Chloe came back shortly with a syringe. She lengthened out Sam's elbow, rubbed a patch of astringent on an area, and inserted the needle full of anti-nausea solution. Dean grew a little worried as Sam hardly twitched at the pinprick. Chloe finished and threw the syringe away in the designated biohazard receptacle before leaving. The tiny voice in the back of Dean's head told him that he shouldn't have expected anything. Sam's expiration date was skirting by so fast, his innards itched and squirmed at the thought. There was no news yet of how that heart was coming, and Dean was steadily becoming a nervous wreck.

The medicine, it seemed, had won the battle, evident by the slow release of the pained grimace. Sam's head slumped to the side, finally relieved. Dean sighed. "Just hang in there Sammy. It'll all be over soon."

Again Sam made no reply, except stare dully at his covers.

Dean's lip trembled and he glanced away, feeling the bottom of his lids well up. "I…I don't know what else to tell you. Sammy, I really don't. It's coming. That's all I can say is it's coming. You'll have a heart soon."

A loud beep sounded from the heart monitor. Dean eyed it. It was then he realized Sam was listening, and that warmed his aching heart. As long as Sam was able to hear him, he would find some way to pull through. _Hopefully_, Dean thought, _hopefully_.

There was an echoing knock at the door. Bobby entered the room with two carrier cases. An instant smile suddenly adorned Dean's lips, glad that his father figure had returned for the morning. "Ah, just what the doctor ordered," he exclaimed as Bobby set down the two boxes, opening the caged doors. The two cats instantly leapt up onto Sam's bed resuming their designated places; Dude snuggling into his lap while Ivan took up space beside his head.

More beeping sounded in the backdrop. Dean let off a tiny smirk, understanding that Sam's two little buddies were another thing his brother needed at this time. He hoped the docs and the nurses wouldn't return and give Hell again. The first time Bobby brought the cats, the morning after their excursion to the park, Dean wanted to think Chloe and Bresley both had an aneurysm. It took a lot of smarts and wit to allow them to keep the felines about.

Bresley, however, wasn't so weak to fall under the Winchester thrall, more or less concerned about bacterial complications with the LVAD tubing. Ultimately it took Sam with his pleading "puppy-dog" eyes and calm demeanor that warmed the doc up. He allowed for the animals to stay, but only on the condition they go no where near the device.

Funny enough, as though the cats understood the doc's stern words, Ivan and Dude carefully treaded the bed, avoiding the machine all together. Dean had to laugh. Who knew that two cats they picked up off the streets had a higher than average feline IQ?

Dean's forced smile of appreciation instantly morphed into a frown of apprehension when Sam barely made of motion of response when Ivan purred lovingly in his ear. The stress accumulating over this past week, with Sam hardly able to speak, much less stay awake, the medications failing to do their supposed job, the hope of finding a new heart vanishing…it suddenly became too much. He shot up out of his chair and began to pace, working out the kinks to his legs and heart.

It would have taken a blind bat to not have noticed the ball of anxiety strolling around. Bobby finished putting away the carrier cases under the bed before rising to his full height with a look of pure empathy. "Dean," he called, nodding towards the door.

Dean immediately followed his mentor outside into the hallway. His heart raced with the implication. Anytime Dear Ole' Bobster wanted a personal interview, it mainly was to get him to open up, primarily because he was probably wearing his bursting emotions as a mask, and they needed to be addressed. Though that wasn't exactly how the old man started off.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked in a low whisper, his wizened blue eyes set on the door.

Dean glanced behind him. "Uh, honestly…" his voice quivered unintentionally. "Not good. He um…he's at the stage now where he's trying to stay awake, and uh…I don't think…I don't think he's—"

"Don't," was Bobby's authoritative reply. The man hardened his gaze. "Don't do that. I can see in that wild look you have in your eye that you've got it in your head to do something stupid. So stop. Don't even think about it."

Dean clasped both hands together, in an attempt to stop them from shaking. "I'm out of options here Bobby. Right now…I can't think of anything else to do, and I'm getting desperate. I can't keep waiting anymore. I gotta do something."

"Like what?"

"I…I uh…I don't know," he stuttered. "I don't know what to do, but I have to try something. Find something. Anything."

Bobby shook his head, in utter bewilderment. "Son…don't even think about calling on the powers at be. You know exactly where that leads."

"I know that Bobby. But…Sammy's…dying Bobby," Dean cried in a frail whisper. "He's dying and everybody is telling me that there's not a damn thing I can do about it. That there's nothing they can do. Please? We have to try. My gut is telling me if we don't do something now Sammy won't last more than a day. He's fighting, but he can't fight forever."

"All right. I hear ya Dean. I do," Bobby reassured. "I'll place some calls, see if anyone of my contacts can come up with an idea or two. If that doesn't work, and they can't find any organ that's available…then I'll see what I can do. But that's only as a last resort, you copy?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"All right, I'll start making some calls. But you? You keep it together. If Sam sees you like this, you know how he'll take it."

"I know. Thanks Bobby. And just…hurry."

"Will do son." Bobby answered, giving him a hug, before strolling down the hallway.

Dean took a shuddering breath, eying the man as he walked away. A tiny part of the weight he felt lying on his back lifted. He didn't know why it was more alleviating to have Bobby on his side than anything else. At least with Bobby's world of contacts, there was a chance of finding something.

He sighed before making his way back to his brother's side. Sam hadn't stirred as he nestled back into his chair. He appeared to be asleep again. Ivan stared up at him interested. Dean patted the cat's head, tickling it under its chin. He said, "It's going to be okay Sammy. Bobby and I are on to something…or at least, we're looking into it. We'll find you a heart dude. So don't sweat it."

Another loud beep sounded from the machine.

Dean then began sifting his fingers through Sam's silky locks. "Just hang on dude. Help's coming. And I won't stop until we save you."

…

It was near evening when Bobby returned to collect the cats and to give an update on Intel. He said that a couple of his contacts, as a debt to be repaid, decided to look into it. He had received a number of calls stating that several hearts were available, but none in the right size Sam needed. As an added measure, Bobby swore on his life to Dean that he would keep looking.

Dean had to admit, he was glad for the info. It certainly had nullified his agitation a bit. At least there were several people all around the U.S. trying to help them. Bobby left taking Ivan and Dude back to his hotel as he said he will continue his search there. Dean nodded his consent, opening up the laptop Bobby brought back for him. He, too, was in search…but for nothing physically related. He had made a promise to his brother a long time ago to not follow down this road…but at this stage, there wasn't anything left but to ponder.

Besides what Sam didn't know wouldn't hurt him. This wasn't about his feelings. This was about his life.

He looked up witchcraft. He looked up different spells and potions. Different types of creatures with the ability to grant life, such as reapers. Though apparently he had an acquaintance with a reaper a couple times and barely made it out alive—despite the fact he was already dead to begin with. Perhaps when it was Sam's turn, he could figure out a spell to keep the reaper at bay, much like Sue Anne. Boy, Sam wasn't going to be a happy camper about that. But as long as he would stay alive, Dean didn't care of the price.

Several times he came upon the topic of the Crossroads. Described as one-hundred percent effective in securing whatever your mind deems necessary, it seemed like the way to go. But, however, it was also described according to the many sites he looked up that it came with a price. A soul for a soul. Typically in a deal, the person selling a soul had a solid ten year no-payment stage. At the end of the ten years, the payment was to be collected. How that was to be there was no mention. He was teeming with excitement-or possibly _desperation_- as he read on. Perhaps this was the way to go?

The more and more Dean read about it, however, the more an awful feeling struck up in his gut. A wriggling action he only ever associated with his dad. Something about this topic kept his thoughts straying to his father for no particular reason. Horrible, wretched thoughts wormed through his head. Could this possibly be what happened to him? Since his miraculous recovery, with no explanation how he survived, and then suddenly his father just died. First he said his wondrous goodbye and then—_bam_—dead. He hated to think that maybe it was right. But no…his dad would never do such a thing.

But then again…he was thinking along the same lines for a supposed deal of saving Sam. So why not?

His brother's soft groans rebounded through his ears. He looked up to see Sam blinking open his eyes several times. The poor kid was still trying to stay awake. Sam rested his tired gaze upon him, the corner of his mouth creasing upwards. "Hey."

"Sammy! Finally talking, I see," Dean stashed the laptop to the side, leaning forward in his seat. "Ya good dude?" He knew it was an inane question, but it couldn't have been helped.

That was answered with a small shrug. A typical Sammy answer of "No, but I'm fine."

"Well since you're finally awake, ya wanna finish that checkers game. Now's a good time than ever. I know you can't stand to lose."

Another shrug.

He shook his head, hardly expecting anything else.

"Dean," Sam spoke so low, Dean literally had to place his ear by his head. "Do me a favor."

"Yeah, anything Sammy."

Sam took a couple of deep breaths. "Tell…tell m-me about mom."

The bottom of Dean's stomach plummeted. All too familiar feelings of anguish pillaged his head, the implication of Sam's gentle demand striking up mutual feelings of grief and bitterness. He hadn't spoken of his mother in years. Why now would Sam want to know all about her? To reopen that wound that was never properly healed.

"M-mom? You want to know about m-mom?" No matter how hard Dean tried, his voice was as unsteady as ever.

Sam slowly nodded.

"Well, uh…what do you want to know?" He gulped. Deep down, he prayed it wouldn't be "anything". There wasn't a single fiber in his core that wished to indulge Sam's interest. Weren't the pictures when they were younger good enough?

"Anything."

Tears welled up. _Of course!_ The topic of his mother was always really sore to discuss, just like Christmas and Holidays. But it was even more painful in that there were so few memories of her, and all of them were so flagellating to endure.

"Please…" was Sam's soft plea. Dean looked to his brother with doleful eyes, in hopes that Sam would comprehend the message he was sending. But, alas, Sam hadn't. Instead he gazed back with his own bleeding expression, one that Dean read as yearning for some form of solace.

And…Dean couldn't give it.

He bit his lip so hard, actual reddish liquid produced. He turned crimson, straining against the explosive emotion attempting to burst forth. "I…" his lip trembled. "I c-can't Sammy. I'm sorry." It was all too much. He no longer had the strength.

A pained twinkle bore in his brother's eyes. They asked "why?"

"Because man…losing her, it nearly killed me," Dean turned away and stared at the opposite wall. It was much easier speaking to than watching the heartbrokenness he had just instilled into his sick brother. "Talking about her…it…I…I can't. Not right now. Honestly I can't even talk about dad at the moment. Just call it a certain mental block," he slightly chuckled.

Sam didn't laugh, or smile. Dean read his expression as extreme hurt. More hurt than anything else he had ever seen Sam suffer through, other than losing Jessica. He faltered. "You want me to talk about Mom and Dad. I…I guess I can do it."

"No." Sam's voice contained every smidgeon of the pain Dean saw. "It's o-okay. I…k-know you…you don't want to talk about them….e-especially D-dad."

For a brief second there, Dean thought Sam knew. It was he this time that paled to the color of white paper. Could Sam possibly know the guilt he carried? Could he somehow have learned about the man's message regarding him?

Dean thought some more. No, he couldn't. He had never spoken about it. To anyone! So how could he know?

"I…I k-know something…is b-bothering you…a-and it's about Dad," Sam strained to speak. He swallowed convulsively. "I may be dying, b-but I can still read you like a book. W-what is it?"

Dean bit his tongue. The grand tension of relieving the heavy burden was ecstatically mesmerizing. More than anything he wanted to spill the beans…

"He…He…" it was at the tip of his tongue. Why couldn't he just have said it?

He gave one last longing look at Sam and simply said with all the stoicism and muster he forced. "Nothing. He didn't say anything. And if he had, it doesn't concern you. So drop it."

It wasn't meant to be harsh or severe. This was something Sam didn't need placed on his frail shoulders. Perhaps when he was whole and healthy again, he could try again. But then, as a big brother looking out for his little brother, this was something he had to endure alone.

Sam slowly nodded in understanding, and exhaustively rolled his head away, as though shamed.

"Sammy, I'm sorry. Just not right now. I'll tell you later," Dean tried. "Do you want to talk about something else? What about a card game? I hear Phase 10's fun."

Again as expected, there was no answer.

"Sam, don't do this." Dean pleaded. "Please."

Silence.

He knew this would happen. He had disappointed Sammy big time. A lighter mood won't lift up the darkness he unintentionally beset. Yes, he was selfish. He'd be the first one to admit that. But he couldn't…just couldn't talk about their parents, not with the way he was feeling.

Dean sighed deeply. It'll be a while until Sam spoke to him again, that he was pretty positive. Laggardly, he pulled himself out of the chair and left. _I'll give Sam some time to digest. God knows I'd be a spitting ball of fire if he kept something about Dad from me. _

Only then it never occurred to him it would happen that night.

After acquiring his third cup of caffeinated sludge, he was about to pass over the threshold into Sam's room when Bobby's huge form lumbered up, a bit shaken.

"Bobby? What is it?" Dean asked, gripping the coffee tighter, fearing that something dreadful had happened.

The old man seemed at first disoriented, but Dean learned he was only in a fit of worried anxiety. Bobby cleared his throat several times before he finally found the power to speak. "It's the cats," he said in a low whisper. "They're gone."

Dean's heart shot up his throat a second time that day. "What do you mean they're gone?"

"I don't know," Bobby's eyes misted, bulging from worry out of their sockets. "I let them out of their cages when I got back to the motel. I went out for a bite, and when I came back, they were no where."

"Was the door left open?"

"No, that's the thing. I locked it. The windows were too. And I know I saw them on the bed before I left. I…I looked everywhere. They're gone."

"Okay, okay, just take it easy. We'll find them," Dean said sympathetically. "Whatever you do? Don't tell Sammy. He can't handle it right now. So in the meantime, we'll keep looking for them. They can't have gone far."

"You sure?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure." It was weird in that typically it was Bobby who always had done the reassuring, not the one to be assured. "You stay with Sam and I'll be Indiana and find em'."

No sooner had he said that when the alarms from Sam's room began wailing. For a mere second, the two men became stone, stunned, understanding what exactly those alarms were signaling. It was in the next second the flood of staff rushed into the room and began to work.

The coffee fell from his paralyzed fingers. Dean couldn't move his legs. They would not bow down to his commands. It wasn't until Bobby had pushed him that he was ushered into the room. One of Sam's regular nurses, Janet, pushed them both back gently against the wall, all the while Bresley was shouting off orders.

Minutes.

That's all it took. Just minutes. Sam's body flopped up and down under the electrocardiogram. His foot accidentally fell and hung suspended off the mattress. Dean couldn't help but stare at it. Bresley rubbed the paddles together and placed them on his still sibling's bare chest and shocked him again. Sammy's foot shuddered from the electricity. More orders echoed through the room. _More noise. More activity_. The foot pulsed boneless yet again. Dean's legs then became jelly and he plopped to the floor. Bobby hung by his side, wrapping his shoulders with his tight, big hands.

"Stay strong boy," Bobby's voice shook.

The heart monitor continued to read "dead".

Bresley commanded in his deep voice to shock him again, upping the voltage. The black paddles went down, the loud "bing" chorused, and Bresley shouted "clear". Sammy went up and down once more…and then there was the most beautiful sound Dean heard within those last five minutes: the sound of a regular diastolic beep, the next a systolic beep.

The staff backed off and watched the monitor fiercely with bated breath. Bresley didn't move an inch, glaring in concentration.

Minute six was up moving on to minute seven and yet Bresley continued to stare. The machine flashed their numbers, showing a decreased output in oxygen. Immediately he began barking out more orders, asking for atropine, asking for a ventilator, asking for a possible move-in to ICU. The list kept going on.

Eventually Sam was covered in tubes, wires, hooked up to every machine the hospital had, it seemed. Dean, at that precise moment, couldn't move. He couldn't think. He could barely keep his head up. Now there was a new sound added to the agonizing silence: the sound of Dean's own failing heart.

Days later, he stood outside the room, afraid to enter. It killed him, literally a proverbial knife slicing through his midsection, thinking about the last few things he said to his brother. Sammy wanted to know about their mom, and he pulled an "I'll tell ya later!"

How could he do that? What was he thinking?

Sam now lay comatose; Bresley revealing that his input had dropped below forty percent. It was now or never. A heart had to come in. The doc swore he was looking into the availability himself. Shockingly he had said it was mind-boggling that there hadn't been one so far. The stout man's reassurance still had done nothing to alleviate the fear stabbing Dean in the chest.

_It was now or never, he said_.

Dean took another gander at his reflection and the bright greens dulled. He had never felt fear greater than this…ultimately because he knew without a heart Sam would never come back to him. And without a heart, it wouldn't be long until it was his time.

Or perhaps his time would be a lot sooner than he thought suddenly. If Sammy needed a heart, maybe…just maybe there could be one. It was dark, sure, but it was as sure as Hell good to think about.

Deep shadows marred his reflection in the darkened pane. Yeah, it was a comforting thought.

_Anything for you Sammy!_

**Uh-oh, now it's on his mind. Well, let's just say Dean is finally at that stage of self-destruction. Which as I've said before, that was part of his character later on in season 2. Hopefully you'll like this chapter—I didn't. It wasn't the best…but we're getting closer to the end. Stay tuned!  
**


	22. Darkest before the Dawn

**We're back folks! And carrying on! Head's up, there's a bit of dialogue in here ya'll might recognize: I sort of stole it from an episode…yes, I know, I should be ashamed…but I think it was only right to have it the same way as it was in the episode. I wonder how many of you can point it out! **

**Title from City of the Fallen (Beautiful song btw. Check it out on Youtube!)**

**Chapter Twenty-One: **

**Darkest before the Dawn **

It was official: the eldest Winchester was a wreck, having just ridden an emotional roller-coaster that he won't soon forget. A week passed since Sam's impromptu beckoning with the other side. A week since that final piece of sanity and hopefulness vanished leaving nothing but a dismal view for the future. All Dean had the spit to do was sit meagerly at Sam's side, hoping, praying. His red-rimmed eyes sought for comfort of the heart monitor; the interchanging numbers a sign Sammy was still anchored with him in this life and hadn't passed through the veil into the Land of the Dead.

Bobby hadn't returned from speaking with the doctor. The old man having spoken with several contacts all throughout the U.S. was in a continual state of perplexity, in utter bewilderment that no heart Sam needed in particular was available. He, along with the docs and the National Center, were constantly searching, placing in several calls, requests. And still there was yet to be an answer.

This was the most amount of activity this hospital had undergone for an individual patient. Dean was appreciative of the service, but it did nothing to repress the growing oppression the predicament placed him in. It was one thing to suffer an unexpected death, but it was a sad other to watch a beloved one, namely his kid brother since he's practically raised since birth, to slowly perish. What he would have given to hear his brother's voice one last time?

Dean glanced at the clock on the upper wall. It was the same as it was the second before. No change. No movement forward. _Jeez, why did that sound familiar?_ He sighed. His lower half ached at the non-existent movement, and he realized he needed to stand up and stretch out the kinks.

_Puh_, he thought bitterly. _What I need is a friggin' miracle._

Another monotonous beep from the monitor echoed and the _whoosh_ from the vent sounded. His brother's eyes remained permanently shut; his dark lashes bright against the contrast of his stark white skin. Dean sighed again. "Come on Sammy. Keep fighting man."

He ignored his body's demands; his dying eyes, instead, finding refuge on the bland sheets beneath Sam's seemingly lifeless hand. He barely slept since Sam went comatose, having become a rotten image of his former self. He hadn't shaved. He hadn't bathed in a couple of days, and he hardly ate.

Bobby had tried to liven up his spirits: offered food, offered to take over as watchdog. But he refused to give in to the man's demands. Bobby, before he left, had told him to stay put, to do a puzzle, watch TV, or something: anything to keep his mind wandering, to think of a desperate solution for this desperate situation. He was doing all that he could in finding help.

But, to Dean, it just wasn't enough. There had to be something else they could do. He couldn't help falling ill in thinking of soul-cringing possibilities; one in particular that was equally disgusting as it was enticing.

But even _that idea _had seemed increasingly far-fetched…one that he was sure he was too cowardly to commit. He shuddered in just thinking about it.

Energetic footfalls reverberated in the hallway, slowing down as they approached the room. Soon Dean saw to his relief Kylie and her parents stroll through, each with happy and exuberant expressions. Dean tried to smile. He tried to look pleased and relieved, but all energy, it seemed, was zapped out of him.

"Deano!" The little girl raced to his side, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. "I did it! I did it!"

"What?" was his less-than-thrilled response.

Kylie's face beamed and she hopped up and down with her Teddy Bear she bought from the gift shop clutched in her hand. "I'm in remishson…remasin…reca—"

"Remission?"

"Yeah! That word." She hopped in place again. "They say I can go home! I'm not sick anymore!"

"Oh that's uh…that's um…some good news." He tried to sound excited. He really did, but the rag of happy and joyfulness had been rung out. "Told you baby girl, you could do it."

Kylie smiled and then crossed over to Sam's bed. "He's still asleep?" she asked pointing.

Dean nodded gravely. He didn't have the heart to tell her during her last visit he was comatose.

"Aw, we have to wake him up! I'm going home and I don't know if I can come back to see him."

"Kylie, no…he—"

"Sam! Sammy! Wake up," the little girl prodded his shoulder. "Come on! Wake up Sambo. I gotta tell you something. Sambo! Oh I know how to wake him up! He was always so ticklish…" She thrummed her tiny fingers into his side…but there was no response.

"K-Kylie honey, please…" Dean called, a bit horrified.

"Hymph. That always worked. Sambo!"

"Kylie! That's enough," her father called from behind. Kylie peered innocently up at him. "Honey, as you can see Mr. Winchester is really sick and he needs his rest. He doesn't need you poking him. So please stop."

Dean let out a sigh of relief.

"Aww," Kylie pouted, walking away. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright honey," Dean calmly reassured. "You know Sam. He needs his beauty sleep. When he wakes up, I'll tell him the good news, okay?" He had to fight back the warm spread of tears threatening to escape past their lachrymal prison.

"Okay? Then…" she then placed her Teddy in the crook of Sam's elbow. She lowered to his ear, and though barely audible Dean heard her say, "I got my miracle Sambo. Maybe this can help you find yours." The child softly gave Sam a small peck on the cheek and said, "Bye Sam. Don't forget me, okay?"

She came back over and took Dean back into another embrace. "Please don't forget me either Deano."

Okay, that was the kicker! All resolve was lost. His composure crumbled, and he nodded harshly, finding no words to say. Kylie broke away and went towards her waiting father; hardly looking at her mother who was incredibly involved tapping keys into her phone. Picking the child up and on his hip, the man said to Dean, "Thank you so much for looking after Kylie. She can't stop talking about you two. And I understand what's happening with your brother, and I'm sorry. He'll be in our prayers tonight."

Dean bit his lip, nodding his appreciation. He could think of no other thing to do at that moment. The parents took their child and left out the door leaving Dean all alone.

...

Bresley returned a few hours later to check Sam's condition. Dean never took his eyes off the man as he wrote down the vital numbers, repositioned Sam's ventilator tube, and smoothed out his blankets. The doc never allowed a shred of emotion to filter through his stoic expression. And Dean was becoming steadily more frantic as he needed something, anything to know how Sam was doing.

Well, he didn't need to wait any longer.

Bresley cleared his throat and raked a hand through his flaming red hair. His hazel eyes at last expressed a small measure of grievance. "I'm sorry Dean. But uh…Sam's in the final stages. It won't be long now. I uh…I don't mean to be blunt, but…if I were you, I'd start saying my goodbyes."

He left without another word and Dean was left all alone, again.

...

"You know, it never occurred to me that our positions would be reversed," Dean said to Sam standing over his bed. "You know that time how I was in the bed with a bad heart and you were standing here telling me not to give up. I was giving my good-bye speech and you were just…so…so stubborn about it all. Just wouldn't let me go down in peace, would you?"

"You know I still have to hunt down that fabric softener teddy-bear. Sniffy? That it's name?" Dean snorted wiping his mouth. "Yeah. Well at least now we know not to go back to Roy. And uh, you know I'm sorry, right Sammy? You didn't once give up on me. Not once. I saw that when I came to your room and saw all that…that stuff you pulled up. Seriously dude, how do you do it?"

Dean seriously didn't know why he chose this time to talk. Several hours ago the doc left him stating Sammy's pre-coming death was official. Several hours before Kylie had left, cancer free, and with a new beginning for a bright and happy future. Around twenty hours ago Bobby had sojourned off -going only God-knows where, doing only God-knows what- and still had not returned back to him and Sam. Several hours Dean has done nothing but wallow in his own pain and guilt…and he felt it was time now to talk to his brother.

It was hard. Sam had not stirred once, deep in the bowels of his coma, but Dean pressed on. More than anything he needed Sam right then, and perhaps it was possible Sam needed him too.

"You always were full of surprises. The times when you didn't want to go on the hunts with us; and the times that you did. All the late night arguments with Dad over schoolwork. Stanford. I should've known. You weren't like me. Hell, you weren't even like Dad at times. You wanted a life. Something normal and safe and I should've respected it. I resented you for a long time for that. I resented that you left us, you left me. But…I realize now that it was something you had to do at the time. A chance to try to live as a wimp," he chuckled.

Dean's expression dimmed, his mouth sagging into a tight smile. "But you know, when we were little— you couldn't have been more than five— you just started asking questions. How come we don't have a mom? Why do we always have to move around? Where'd dad go when he'd take off for days at a time? I remember I begged you—"Quit asking, Sammy. Man, you don't want to know". I just wanted you to be a kid a little while longer. I always tried to protect you…keep you safe. Dad didn't have to tell me. It was always my responsibility. It was like my job, you know? ...And I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that, I'm sorry." The tears finally came and he wiped them away. "But that's what I do I guess. I let down the people I love. I let dad down. And now I guess I'm supposed to let you down too. How can I? How am I supposed to live with that?"

"Sammy, you can't go out, not like this. Not like this," his lip trembled. "I don't know if I can do this. You can't leave me like this. I don't even know where my head is at. You were always the brains of the operation. You need to come back and put things right again. I need my partner again. What am I supposed to do without you? Hunt? Don't hunt? What?"

He paused in his speech, thinking. He stared at the far wall real hard, and like the wall color, he came up with blank. "I can't do it. You and Dad were the only things keeping me together. Dad's gone. And now without you," he shook his head, "Sammy no. I can't let it happen. I won't. Just watch me. You're getting a heart. Even if it's the last thing I do in this miserable life, I'm saving you."

For the first time since this terrible journey began, he finally had a moment of clarity. And he knew downright in his heart that this was the path to follow. His feet were in motion before he was aware he was moving. He fled out of the room and fast into the hall, accidentally knocking into Bobby. The old man yelped in surprise, and called his name several times worryingly, but he hardly bothered to stop; not until he was out into the cool air and the safe haven of his Baby.

The Impala's underused engine roared to life with the turn of the key, and barely allowing it time to warm up, he pulled the vehicle out of the parking lot; its tires burning rubber as it veered onto the highway.

...

According to the blueprint of Crossroad Deals, the first place to stop was an intersection, preferably a dirt or gravel crossroad somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Finding one fifty miles away, Dean parked the car and immediately went to his trunk, piecing together the ingredients needed for the summoning ritual. He had no idea what to expect, but according to the research, he needed a picture ID, bones of an animal, and some coins.

Procuring the items and storing them into an aluminum box, he marched out into the middle, where the roads intersected one another, and dug a hole. Placing the box into the hole and filling it in with the gravel, he stood up and waited. Supposedly a demon or someone was to show and then the dealing would commence.

A few minutes passed, and he still left waiting.

He huffed anxiously. "I did everything the thing said. Come on already. Hurry up, you stupid sons of bitches!" He screamed out loud.

"Damn, I can see you're not the type to wake up next to in the morning." A haughty sexy voice said from behind.

Dean whirled around and came face-to-face with a hot, tall, raven-haired woman, dressed in a tight black dress. If it weren't for the red eyes and wicked savvy grin, he'd feel like he was right back in his young bachelor days. But even so, being this close to a demon, his skin crawled at the mere presence. He took a deep breath. "You…you're the crossroad demon?"

"Yep. Well, one of them," the woman replied, stepping closer. She eyed him from his feet and up. "Let me guess, baby Winchester. Been out of the hunting trade for quite a while I see."

"So what's your point?" He spat heatedly.

"Oh, no point. Just…" she trailed, licking her ruby-red lips. "It's just too sweet."

"Enough of the crap. No tricks. No scams. I'm here to make a deal."

"I figured that much out for myself champ. And I've heard all about your little brother. Poor baby, heart's failing him. No hope. No second chance for a life either. And so I've pretty much ascertained that you're here for little Sammy. Keep the reapers off him, and you both can live a happy merry little life for the next ten years. Have I got it right so far?" The red eyes glinted.

Dean exhaled convulsively. His stomach squirmed at the sight of her. "I just want my brother to live. And if ten years is the grace period, then fine. Ten years you can come for me. Just give my brother back his life, a new heart, a new immunity, new everything."

"Aw," the demon gasped. "That's so sentimental, I'm about to gag."

Dean pursed his lips in irritation. This broad was jerking his last feeble chain.

The demon eyed him teasingly. She grinned. "It is a good deal, very noble…but…I have to decline your request. So, no."

That was a shocker there. Dean deadpanned, his eyes bulging. "No? What do you mean _no_?"

"As in 'N' 'O'. Do you need a dictionary?"

"I don't get it," Dean stammered. "I've been hunting down you sons of bitches for nearly two decades. My dad's taken out more numbers of you pathetic scum than I care to count. You've got ample reason to take me. So do it. Make the deal or—"

"Or what? You'll kick my ass? Tickle my feather? Haha, you slay me. Trust me honey, I'll be long out of this body before you can lift a finger, and wouldn't that be gentleman-like?" She scoffed. "Ha, like it would matter. All you're shooting lately are blanks."

He stayed silent, his anger and shock simmering.

The demon smirked again. "Don't get me wrong, I like you Dean. I can see you would be a lot of fun to play with…but my orders come from up top. I'm just a sales rep. I have a boss like everybody else. And ooh," she hissed, "the deal I could've given you? It would have been a lot better than what your dad got."

Dean's heart stopped. "What did you say?"

The woman looked genuinely surprised. "Ooh, Deanie Baby. You didn't know?"

"My dad made a deal?"

"Uh huh. With the top dog and all. His soul for yours. Oh man," she glanced at him pathetically, "what a waste? Sorry baby, but I guess your brother's next. You have my condolences."

"You bitch?" he seethed.

"Why thank you?" Her callous smirk changed to a look of seriousness. "Look, I shouldn't be telling you this, but grunting and seething isn't going to get you far there sport. I'd take this as a blessing. There's a bigger picture here than you and I, and you're not part of it yet."

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll see soon enough? When the boss wants something, he always gets it. So if I were you, I'd let your brother go. Time is Hell enough as it is, and very soon it's gonna get very bad for you."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" She stepped closer and leaned into his ear, and whispered, "Sometimes the truth hurts worse. Have fun making funeral arrangements?"

"You—" He whirled around, his arm in full swing…but she was gone. He exhaled out a breath of despair, his hands gripping the top of his head tightly. His one chance of saving his brother was gone, flitting far away in the form of a really hot chick. "DAMMIT!"

Well, that left plan B. There was no turning back now. Guts or no, his brother needed a heart, and by damn, he was getting him one.

...

Dean paid for a local motel room some ten miles away from the hospital. Immediately he fished out of a plastic bag, a small beer cooler, along with some towels, a knife, and gauze pads. Having procured these items at a nearby gas-mart, he set them by the bed neatly and in sight.

The first part of the plan was done. Setting out into the night, he went to a local bar and sought out the skuzziest, most desperate looking man in the place. It came down to a lot of talking, a lot of empty threats, and a lot of pleading action to acquire the man's attention. Ultimately it took a down payment of a Grand to capture the "okay" he needed. He told the bastard there was another Grand involved, but only once the job was done.

The man had this sickly expression over his face after Dean told him the exact details of his wishes. Of course, he didn't expect anything else. He too would have a hard time digesting if some complete stranger was paying him to cut out his heart and deliver it to a hospital. Calmly Dean asked for the 100 percent guarantee the man would follow through. He only openly expressed that his baby brother's life was depending on it…and if for any reason his brother didn't receive it, he'd haunt his ass. The afterlife was a bitch…and so was he.

He told him to wait on the outside. Once he heard the gun go off, run in, and get to hacking.

Upon entering the room, sick with nerves, Dean shakily pulled out the bag of ice waiting in the motel's tiny fridge and poured the contents into the tiny cooler. Giving the items he bought one last look, he took his gun out of his jacket pocket and let it fall onto the mattress, where he began to eye it nervously.

**Guess what guys! We're finally at the prologue in the next chapter! Stay tuned! Any guesses on what might happen? ;)**


	23. Fallen

**A/N: We're now back where the prologue left off. Listen up! Extremely dark and heavy mature content lies ahead. Resort back to earlier warnings. This chapter is intense and certainly not designed for the squeamish. Beware…and I mean it! You have been warned…**

**Chapter Title from Sarah McLachlan.**

_**Previously: **_

_The Colt 1911 pistol lied solely on the ornate pomegranate bedspread, conspicuously posed on one of the comforter's giant orchids. Its metal, just polished and refined, with its curvy engravings on the side glistened tauntingly in the motel's dim light. _

_Dean sat across from it on the other bed eying his favorite weapon intensely, his legs bouncing erratically whilst he bit and chewed the tips of his thumbs. _

_This choice he toyed with was a dismal one in fact. A choice any normal, mentally stable person would immediately say nay to. It was a choice he clearly hadn't wanted to make. But he had to make one soon—his brother's life depended on it. _

_He stole a glance at the white envelope with the name __**Sam**__ scribbled boldly on the front leaning prominently on the flower-decorated pillow. Somehow maybe, his mind already had made the choice. It was just a matter of summoning up the guts to do it. _

_Time was of the essence._

_Sam didn't have long. Weeks. Days. Hell, minutes, maybe __seconds__. There was no telling. Only that with each second that went by in pondering about chances, the more his sibling's life dwindled away—further decreasing the _chance_ of ever opening his bright green eyes again. _

_And if Sam died, it wouldn't be long until his time came too. _

_And it was in that moment his decision became clear. Screw destiny. Screw life. If he had the chance of giving his brother life, then so be it. That was his destiny all along, one that he proudly accepted. _

_Immediately taking up the gun, he quickly put the metal end into his mouth. The device shook tremendously in his palms, his heart aching. The fear intensified the more his mouth closed in around the cold steel and a strained tear fell down his cheek. _

_The lightning bolt of doubt struck him then, and his finger on the trigger let up. His mind screamed at him to stop, but his will overcame the protests. Life without his family was no life at all. The thought of spending the rest of his life alone gave him the willpower. It was now or never._

_Without another thought, he concentrated angling the gun up further. _

This is for you Sammy. I love you little brother_, he thought. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pulled the trigger. _

**Chapter Twenty-Two:**

**Fallen**

_**Now:**_

The gun clicked into place and a lone tear fell for the last time. The gun went off and as expected an explosion of white-hot fire cascaded through his skull, shaking loose his eyeballs, leaving nothing but a torturous aftermath in its wake.

It wasn't instant as he had thought it would be. There was a couple of seconds where the last few sensations were not dull, but acute. He felt the gooey warmth of both blood and brain matter slide down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He felt himself fall to the bedspread, his body splaying out like a virgin on a sacrificial altar. And before it was all over, before the last electrical charges blew out, before where there was nothing but an impenetrable darkness, Dean could have sworn he heard music.

…

_Is this what Death is like? Cuz if it is? It kinda sucks! _

Weightless, untethered to flesh, Dean drifted in a silent void. A void where there was no light, no sound, no end. His mind, soul, or whatever continued to float as though in some ethereal lake. He grabbed out, in hopes of latching onto some solid base, but his hopes were dashed as his arms glided through nothing.

"Hello!" he called out. But his voice was not heard. It only sounded as a buzz in his ears. He didn't understand. Heaven. Hell. There had to be something on the other side. Where was he? Purgatory?

"Hello? What is this? Am I Dead? Hello!" And still his words carried on broken and vaporous into the darkness. He began to panic. It couldn't be like this. He had to know if his brother made it alive. He couldn't rest properly without knowing his sacrifice was worth it.

Dean stilled. Off in distance, a pinpoint of white shown through. He focused, seeing the tiny dot become bigger, rounder, growing fast. Next he felt cyclonic winds hurl around his spirit, sucking him towards the seemingly white horizon. He spun around, fanning his arms out, attempting to swim away from it.

The expanding whiteness grew at an exponential rate, a pulsating roar emanating from it. Dean braced himself. He could not escape it. The expansion enveloped him whole, enshrouding him in a blaze of white, hot light. A guttural fearful cry escaped his seemingly ghostly lips. He didn't want to go into the light, in fear of what may lie on the other side.

It was futile. Everywhere there was vast luminescence. Scrunching himself into a ball, he squeezed his eyes tight, and allowed the preternatural force to claim him.

…

The sound of voices lured Dean to reopen his eyes. Doing so, he took in another bright place…only it wasn't filled with billowy clouds, golden gates, and frisky women as he had hoped. In fact, it was a place he most dreaded: Chrysler hospital.

Taking a step out into the familiar ER lobby entrance, Dean stopped to take a look. He looked at himself, noting he was still in his apparel from the night at the motel, but he was clean; no dirt, no blood. He looked to the crowded receptionist's desk at the front of the sliding glass doors and all the distraught, angry patients waiting in the packed waiting room off to the left. The atmosphere was the same as he had left it. Quickly he strode onward towards his brother's room.

He hadn't the slightest clue what time it was, or what day. Bypassing a clock suspended on a wall, it struck him in that it had stopped, the pointers frozen on the numbers twelve and three. Doctors, nurses, and patients all meandered aimlessly throughout the hallways, carrying on with their work, totally unaware of his presence running past them. A few times, his ethereal remains went through a person or two, through some beds and equipment left out. A small smile adorned his lips. This was the most amount of freedom he had in awhile.

His silent footfalls didn't stop until he skidded in front of Sam's designated room. "Sam!" he ran in, halting.

It was empty. The bed left behind was evenly pressed, the usual heart monitor, IV stands, and tubing gone. His chair, once disheveled with patches worn into the leather, was replaced with new, cleaner upholstery. Sam's roommate down at the end, obscured by the nylon curtain was still there, the several family members still hovering around the bedside.

Dean ran to the end, and he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Hey! Hey! Where's Sam? Is he in recovery? Where's Sam?"

The parents of the ill teenager never responded. Instead, they folded their arms in to their chests, shaking from a sudden chill. Dean stepped back, irritated. Shaking his head, licking his lips, he tried again…but to no avail, his pleas went unheard.

Whirling around, he sprinted out the door. He had to find the recovery unit. Running through various staff members, almost bumping into a gentlemanly spirit who hollered an affronted "hey", Dean continued, darting and dodging on his way towards the other side of the colossal hospital.

Bresley and the nurse Chloe walked past him deep in conversation. Dean slid to a halt, and paused for a brief second, before changing course and taking off in hot pursuit. Chloe, it appeared, was upset, red-cheeked, and teary eyed. Bresley held her gently by the elbow, ushering her towards what Dean surmised was his office. Very soon, it turned out Dean was right as the handsome doctor led the woman-in-charge into his square office. Dean hardly hesitated and followed them in.

"Come on doc. You gotta tell me something about Sam. I need to know how he's doing," Dean called out.

The doctor shook out the cold that suddenly wafted through the room and kindly sat the nurse into one of the two chairs opposite his desk, while he took the other. Bresley looked her square in the eye and said, "Chloe, you've got to open up. You've been keeping it in for weeks. I know that his death was tough on you, but you have to let this go. Otherwise it's going to kill you."

"I know, but he was so scared. He was so desperate for something…and nothing came," Chloe stuttered with tears falling steadily down her cheeks. "I…I k-know I shouldn't l-let it get to me…but if you only saw the devastation of the unc—" she hiccupped. "…and now we have another patient going through the same thing. Sir…I don't know if I could go through this again so soon. It…"

"Shhh, it's okay. What happened to the Winchesters was devastating, it was. That man shouldn't have died, but he did it for a noble cause."

Dean perked up. So it was about him they were talking about. His heart pinched, seeing the effect his suicide had on Chloe. In his desperation, it never occurred to him how his act would affect other people around him. But he still needed to know about Sam. He leaned forward, listening in.

"I know. I know," the nurse let loose another volley of emotion. "But he _just_ wanted to save his brother. And it was all for not. The heart wasn't even compatible. What is the chance in that? Was that boy ever supposed to live?"

The room became frigid, notable by the doc and nurse's breath vapor. Dean stood up, his eyes widening at the implication. What did she mean by _not compatible_? Surely his heart was. They had the same blood type, hopefully the same who-sits and what-sits. It was perfect. Nothing should have gone awry.

"Where's Sam?" He screeched.

The living said nothing to him. Bresley leaned more towards Chloe. "It's okay. These things happen all the time. Some siblings match. Others don't. Besides, the way that sleaze brought it in, there was no way it was sanitary. It wouldn't have worked anyway. Don't beat yourself up over it. It's over. They're both at peace now."

"Oh my God. Oh my God," Dean gasped, his hands falling to his knees. He had to have heard wrong. This all had to be_ wrong_! "Sammy, no, no, no, no, no! Sammy! This is not real. This is not real! Time to wake up Dean. Wake up!"

Dean gazed despondently at the two, mostly in disbelief at what he heard. He rose to full height again just as the doc and nurse restored their composures, ready to leave the office with their chins high and dignity in tact.

He made to follow them when he noticed there were strange shadows aligning the baby blue walls; three or four weirdly shaped shadows creeping towards him, fading in and out like smoke. Dean paused, studying them. He was sure if there were hairs at the back of his neck, they'd be at a standstill. Something didn't sit right with the black splotches. For starters, there was nothing inside the room that would have given off a shadow.

And there were times where he wished he was wrong!

Hands suddenly shot out of the shadows; black, ashen, corporeal hands made a grab for him. He quickly dodged all three. The hands slingshotted back where then the amoebic shadows peeled off the drywall, and barreled into him. The force of the hits knocked him over Bresley's neat desk, scattering the files of papers haphazardly. Dean forced himself up, reactively throwing out a punch. The shadow receded, backing away.

Dean prepared for whatever it was. The three flitting shadows then merged into one, where it formed into something tall, ugly, and- Dean could hardly believe it-wore a ragged black hooded cloak.

_Holy Shit! The Grim Reaper does exist!_ He thought, cringing in revulsion when the figure extended out skeletal arms.

The Grim Reaper attacked. Instead of its bone appendages going right through his form as he had hoped, the hands latched onto his shoulders with a death-like grip (no pun intended!) and threw him to the ground. Dean didn't have a chance to scramble to his feet when the fiend was on top of him, digging its bony fingers into his spine and neck, pulling him through the floor.

Dean screamed, fighting against the pull, feeling himself sink through the tiled cement. His presence slid fast through the many layers, a hot wind flushing past his face. The caped figure continued to drag him down…and down…

…and Dean finally understood why they were going _South_. Rumor goes, there was only one place reserved for suicides. And that gave him the strength to fight. _Oh Hell no!_ (Pun intended!)

He thrashed and kicked, beat with his fists, scratched, and as a last resort, took a bite. Grabbing a hold of the hard digits, he forced up one and snapped it in two. The fiend merely grunted, yanking him down faster, now through mounds of dirt.

"NO!" He yelled. "Sammy! Sam! Help ME!"

Suddenly the memory of telling the story of "Huey and Dewey" to Kylie and Sam while in the hospital sprouted before his eyes. The image became more vivid, more tangible the longer he thought about it. He recalled the part where he told them about the magic rocks, how it changed the Impala, how because of the bond the magic rocks created the two little boys became closer than ever.

There was another image of his little brother at the age of seven collecting those rocks and stuffing them into his Barbie Doll suitcase; an image of himself throwing the pepper-colored rocks out and Sam taking the heat for it; and another of his brother as a man smiling at the story.

Holding onto that last memory, Dean mustered all his remaining strength, clasped both fists together, and rammed them as hard as he could into the side of the Reaper's skull. The fiend howled in misery, loosening its grip. He spun around and smashed his boot into the same spot, where instantly the Reaper let go.

Once the contact broke, Dean no longer found himself in the dark, molding underworld of dirt and clay, but in a gloomy decayed grassy pad full of broke-down rusty vehicles. He immediately recognized it as the backyard of _Singer's Salvage Yard_: Bobby's house. Only it appeared as though Bobby may have been out of business for a while. Large heaps of trucks, he swore were there several months ago, were unused, busted, no longer viable for use. He passed by a weathered lilac blue 65' Ford Mustang he had never seen before. Dean instantly became worried.

Keeping an eye out for ole' reaper –if that's even what it was- he ran towards the house. Bobby's home looked as though the man had forgotten all about it, its lawn grown and unkempt, the roof in need of shingles, and the wood paneling rotten and caved in. Gliding in through the walls, he ran straight for Bobby's living room. Even on the inside, the place had an oppressive setting, a dark, heavy melancholy settling against the once happy, homely feel.

Dean spotted Bobby sitting in a chair outside the fireplace. He was admiring a photograph. Edging closer, Dean saw, to his dismay, that the man was a wreck. Depressed, unclean, unshaven, he wilted away in his chair by a lit, dying fire, nothing like the strong, brazen, mentor Dean once knew. The photograph Bobby stared at was an old picture of John, Sam, and him when they were kids. His eyes were dull, lifeless, and full of pain as he continued staring at the piece.

"Come on Bobby, don't do this." Dean pleaded. "You were the strong one out of all of us. There's still hope for you. Snap out of it, please. For your sake, please!"

And as with everyone before him that day, he went unanswered.

Dean bit his lip in sorrow. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to cause his family more pain and grief. He had to find a solution to this dilemma. Glancing away, he paused at seeing the calendar posted on the kitchen wall. Slowly approaching it, his eyes began to widen, watering, seeing that it was August 31. The whole shebang went down at the beginning of March, and it was now August. _That was months ago!_

"Bobby. Please tell me it's not true," Dean fought the emotion. "Please tell me Sammy didn't die. Tell me this is a dream!"

"Sam? Dean? Is that one of you?" Bobby said out loud, his eyes still plastered to the old photograph. Lots of fog blew out of his mouth.

"Yeah, it's Dean, Bobby. I don't know if you can hear me." Dean answered.

Bobby let off a trepid smile. "Good. I'm glad one of you is here. I've missed you boys."

"Bobby. I'm so sorry," he said, his lip trembling. "I was supposed to save us. Sammy had to live. It was my job to look out for him…and I failed. I failed him Bobby. I failed you. I'm sorry…God, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay boys. I'll be with you soon." The old man said.

Dean jerked his head. "What are you talking about? Bobby. Don't scare me. What are you talking about?"

The man didn't answer. He put away the photograph in his desk drawer and sat back in his rickety chair, as though waiting for something. Dean grew even more concerned when he looked around and saw the place tidy and organized; none of the usual paraphernalia, books, piles of papers, and weapons stashed around the lot. He looked back to the man, determined to make a mess to capture his attention if necessary, when there was a knock at the door.

The knock was consistent. Bobby never made a move from his chair to answer it. Soon there was the sound of the door breaking open and pounding footsteps echoing closer to their destination. Dean went on the defensive, ready to defend his one and only family left to the end.

"Lucy! I'm home!" A sinister voice called. The footsteps sounded closer and soon a casually dressed, cropped hair, short man appeared through the kitchen area. Dean emitted out a tiny gasp of dread.

The man's eyes were the monstrous color of daisy yellow.

It was the Yellow-Eyed Demon.

Dean's hands slowly lowered down to his sides, in utter shock at the turn of events. He turned to Bobby, who still hadn't moved from his chair, who still hadn't taken his eyes away from the fire.

"Bobby, get up!" Dean yelled.

"Sorry, I'm late. Had a bit of trouble with the kids," the demon remarked with a mischievous, cat-like grin. "So I hear you've been waiting for me, huh?"

"Yeah," Bobby spun the chair around to face his enemy. "Been waiting for your ugly face to show up since I heard you were back in town systematically offing hunters. Don't want any competition for your psychos, am I right? Mainly because they need all the help they can get," he replied coolly.

"Oh! We finally meet, and now we're off to name calling. Jeez, great welcoming wagon you've got there."

"Bobby, run." Dean whispered, moving in between him and the demon. Though he was surprised the demon hadn't seen him.

"So sorry to hear about your kids. Suicide, such a nasty way to go," the man shrugged. "One way to redecorate the interior, huh? Aw Sammy. He was special, you know? Poor kid, spending all that time dying in a bed, and then brother dear had to go blow his head off, in the hopes of nobly sacrificing himself for his baby bro. Can't say I'm surprised though. Idiot always had suicidally reckless tendencies. Only damn. It didn't work out, did it? Kid died minutes after they opened him up. The heart didn't even work. What a dumbass!"

Dean's shoulders slumped and he fell to his knees. So it was true. His sacrifice was for nothing. Sam received his heart, but he died anyway. It wasn't meant to be. This was all for nothing!

"Well sorry for your loss champ. Better luck next time with the new batch of kids, eh? Just make sure you don't find some who aren't so destructively prone, will ya?"

Bobby suddenly stood up from his chair, mean and angry. He quickly grabbed for the shotgun on the table and let off a shot. The buckshot went straight through the man's chest, embedding deep within his flesh. The demon merely laughed it off, patting his jacket.

"Senseless Singer. Senseless. Don't you know iron only works so much on something like me…Give me a break! Speaking of which…" Yellow-Eyes snapped his fingers and in an instant he was beneath Bobby, lifting the man up by the throat. Dean launched forward to fight, but he passed straight through the two men, spasming at the evil presence residing within. The demon smiled wickedly. "Nothing personal. It's just business."

"Go to Hell," Bobby spat.

YED nodded. "Would love to champ, but I've got things to do first. Say Hi to your boys for me." And before Dean could get up, the demon snapped the old man's neck.

"NOOOOO!" Dean screamed, running into the demon where again he passed through and onto the ground.

The demon laughed dropping the corpse. And in a blink, he was gone.

"NO. No! No! No!" Dean scrambled over to his surrogate father. Bobby's eyes were wide, marbled, like stone. "Bobby, no! Bobby." He couldn't touch him. His hands glided right through. "This can't be happening! NO! You hear me! This can't be happening!"

Screeching sounded. Dean looked up and saw the shadows were back. Only instead of a few, several more covered the lifeless walls. The screeching became louder as the shadows began once again to morph into one. Instantly Dean took off running.

The door flew wide open as he ran right through straight into…a cemetery? Groves of smoky slabs as far as his eyes could see lay scattered across the ashen premises. He saw he was standing on the outskirts of this funerary ground, and with it came a foreboding feeling. Eying the tombstones, his feeling of despondency increased, just knowing there was something here he was going to dread.

And that feeling came into the form of two slabs directly to the front of him. One grave with the name engraved _Dean Winchester_ into the smoke-colored cement sat next to another with the name _Sam Winchester_. At that moment, Dean felt his world split in two. All that he had aimed for, all that he had sacrificed, and _this_ here was his reward.

If it were at all possible for a ghost, he went numb. There was no feeling. No connection with the living plain. He was dead, both physically and spiritually. And his brother…the same.

"_I failed_." He uttered in a dead whisper.

Rustling occurred behind him. It was back. He could feel it. Slowly he turned around facing Death, the figure swathed in the clichéd black drapes. It stretched out a long skeletal hand. The call of a crow sounded somewhere behind it and Death laughed. It's crackling voice taking the sound of thousands of angry bees.

Dean trembled at the sight. There was no where to go. No where to hide. No where to turn. Closing his eyes a final time, he gritted his teeth and swung a mighty fist.

But Death was too fast for him. The spiny fingers clamped their way around his foot and knocked him to the cold ground. There wasn't any time to fight. _No! No!_ Death dragged him along, jerking his spirit left and right. Dean tried to grab on to anything. He made a grab for his brother's tombstone.

"Sammy! No!"

It was too late. With one final yank, his fingers slipped off the cement, and he was pulled down under towards the fiery pit of Hell.

_SAMMY! _

**TBC**

…**Do you trust me? ;) **


	24. In Noctem

**Sorry about the wait again. I've been having extremely big issues at home that have taken the majority of my time on this…besides work. So hopefully the vast majority of you are still with me, cuz we're almost done! **** And moving on….**

**Title of song by Nicholas Hooper from the Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince soundtrack. (The idea behind the song titles is to listen to them as you read…who knows? It might give you a different feeling towards the chapter! ;) )**

**Chapter Twenty-Three: **

**In Noctem**

He was falling…and falling fast.

The reaper's pull on him was intense and relentless, its grip never loosening. Dean screamed all the way down. The hot air rushing into his face soon became hotter, thicker, tasting of ash and brimstone. Never before in his whole life had he been this terrified.

It wasn't long until the reaper had released its grip. Massive volcanic heat suddenly enshrouded him, causing him to choke. His floating soul curled in fetal-like, the heat bounding his chest tight. He grabbed at his throat looking around. It was hazy, with dim lighting highlighting the background. And all around was noise. Overwhelming noise like that of twenty or more freight trains. Black smoke swirled around him fast, the sounds of taunting laughter flowing with it.

The racket was all too painful to endure. Dean grabbed his ears, clenching his eyes tight, ready for this nightmare to end.

Hands, or what felt like hands, gripped his arms and legs painfully tight, splaying them out far apart. His body then hung in limbo, unable to move. Dean cried out for help. That agonizing fear had once again pierced through his tough bravado making him something he most hated: helpless.

Death appeared again with its dark, sinister cloak. He couldn't see a face, nor any trace of skeletal matter…just emptiness.

"No. No. Get away from me!" Dean stared, like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.

Death's robe jostled, rippling fluently. It was then the skeletal hands produced a hand-held scythe, sharp, with rust, the color of blood matting its edges. Dean eyed the weapon as Death raised it above its frayed drapes. He clamped his eyes shut, ready for the searing and unyielding torture to begin.

He waited…and waited, eyes still sealed.

But it never came.

The tarnishing heat suddenly had lifted, and he no longer felt like he was choking on stale smoke. A light burned bright on the outside of his lids. He reopened his eyes and shut them once more as there was that luminescence again.

_What was happening?_

A sound occurred. It started out so faint, but soon became louder; having a great pitch and hair-raising beat. It was a tune. More specifically, a rock and roll tune; one that he swore he knew. He concentrated harder.

A spark of recognition ignited. As the music grew louder, his insides flourished with a squirmy euphoria. It was "Smoke in the Water": his ringtone? Why that was playing in the land of the dead beat the hell out of him. _Is this my funeral music? How fucking fitting?_

However freaky, and uplifting, to hear one of his favorite songs of classical rock again, it was entirely unsettling in how the music lured him into a blissful calm.

"It's alright. You can open your eyes now." He heard a child-like voice say.

Slowly Dean listened, suddenly finding himself standing at a window looking out at a white expansion. Flurries of frozen precipitation fell passionately through the hazy dark, softly blanketing the ground and pines. The row of pines' branches hung so low from the weight of snow, the frozen white clumps slid off landing in huge piles at the base, creating a foot tall perimeter. Icicles, long and sharp as daggers, hung draped from the sides of the roof where Dean could see himself reflecting off their icy cylinders, and all he saw was a deep amalgam of confusion and sadness.

_What the hell?_ One minute he was in Hell about to be a victim of the Jack the Ripper wannabe, and now he was staring out at a winter wonderland?

"See. What do you think?" The voice said again, causing him to whirl around.

He was in a cabin.

Another spark of recognition hit, and he realized he was in his dad's cabin. He and Sam had come here for most winters as kids. "On break" as his father would say.

His eyes glistened at the nostalgia. Dark mahogany flooring lay out in front, along with four walls made of dark logs. A small kitchenette was off to the right and Dean saw that it was filled with piles of dirty dishes. He remembered he hated washing dishes. Would always wait until the last minute when pops came home that he started cleaning. And all the while his little brother would be sitting on the floor immersed in a book.

_Speaking of which…_

"Smoke in the Water" had faded, and now there were several hushed whispers. He followed them to the other side of the kitchenette and paused. There at the front of the small dining room table was he and his kid brother sitting by a hand-drawn Christmas tree he colored in using crayons on the cabin wall. Sammy was no more than three at the time. This was the first Christmas they spent without their dad.

Little Sammy sat in his lap picking at the tinsel on two of the emerald green presents. Even at seven, Dean had always made Sammy open the presents first. He could see the great heaviness laden on his tiny face that it was hard that Christmas spending it without a parent, the first of many. John had said he had a hunt to wrap up and would be back in time. Only that year he wouldn't return for another week, as he was trapped out in the blizzard.

Dean didn't want to keep his little brother waiting any longer and so surprised him with the three gifts he managed to scrounge.

"This is yours too Sammy. I wrapped it myself." He heard himself say, the tiny hand pointing to a cherry-red box. Little Sammy squealed with delight, attacking the present like a hound just finding its prey.

The scene brought a tear to Dean's eye as he felt like he had been slapped in the face. What was this? A recollection of memories to remind him of all that he had screwed up? A teaser before his final judgment was made? Was this his punishment? His fate?

"No silly, not at all." A new alluring voice chuckled beside him. "This is just one of your fondest memories. It was the first time Sam had said he loved his big brother."

Dean spun around finding no one. The voice was feminine, and vaguely familiar. "Who are you? What is this?"

Next an exploding pain erupted in his chest, another outmatching the force of Mt. Vesuvius in his head. He fell to his knees, carrying his head, when his whole body was enveloped into another flash of white hot light.

The brightness dimmed and the pain rapidly began to wane. Dean felt something stiff beneath his back and soft underneath his head. Mountainous confusion pounded into him and he was left reeling.

"It's alright. You can open your eyes now. You're safe _here_," the soft feminine voice said.

Slowly Dean did so. And immediately that mountain of confusion soared ever higher as he became unsure of where "here" was. A dirty beige background lay before him with dark mustard-colored spots and what looked to be reddish sausages suspended next to them. If he didn't know better, he'd say he was looking at a bacteria-stained petri dish like the one in Biology class sophomore year.

"Is this heaven?"

"Ehhhh…no." The voice replied. "Just some leftovers of a motel room. In fact, I wanna say it was the last one you were in; redecorated and all. Those stains there? Well, let's just say they're not water stains."

Dean groaned out loud, now realizing that it wasn't a petri dish he was staring at, but a ceiling. And the hanging reddish chunks? Yeah.

"Oh God!"

"Hmmm, nope. Not him either."

Dean huffed, now exasperated with the non-corporeal voice. He cleared his throat to speak. His voice was raw, chalky; stinging like it was a target zone for millions of bees. The chiseling headache was back, and his body was stone, too sodden with weight to move. _God, do me a favor and just kill me now!_

"Unfortunately he is unable to acquiesce to your request. He's a little busy at the moment."

Dean gasped, suddenly fearful. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend." The woman casually answered, further annoying him. That strike of familiarity hit him again and it made him all the more apprehensive. He's heard this voice before, but where?

There was a crinkling of paper before a, "Your letter to your brother is quite beautiful. You loved him very much, didn't you?"

He refused to answer.

"I take it you don't trust me." A rustling occurred next to his tingling body. "Must admit I'm not too surprised. And why should you? I mean…complete stranger, you can hardly see, back in your squalid room…"

"Enough already! Just cut to the chase! Jeez!" He blurted. "Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?" His eyes darted around the room, finding no one.

"All in due time Winchester you will learn my identity and my purpose," she answered. "But for now you must listen."

"Listen? Screw that lady! I THINK I just died and went to Hell, and you want my stiff to rot here as you preach? No thank you Beatrice! What the hell is this? Why can't I move? You tell me who you are or so help me I'll…"

Soft, gentle fingers caressed his shoulder and instantly his words fell mute. Still feeling immobile, he attempted to sit up. The hand firmly pressed down, assuring him that not only was his body virtually incapable of obeying direct commands, but that he was also chained down by Boudica, the Invisible Man-eater.

"Ease up there chap. You need to be careful. You were just brought back and it's going to take a little bit of time for your mind and body to process everything, realign itself. Give it a few minutes and you'll be good as new."

"So in other words, stay put." Dean sarcastically relayed.

"Yes."

Dean sighed. "I don't like this."

"Nor should you. Most of whom who return from the dead hardly ever keep their sanity about them. It's always tales of their visit to the other side…when in reality it merely is a flash of a good memory. Soon they'll learn what it's really all about."

"So I was dead." Dean's soul quivered at the realization. "…and I was in Hell."

"No you weren't. Hell is actually much worse in my humble opinion. What you were experiencing was a phantom. The mind is very powerful, so much it can have a rippling effect in your afterlife. When your soul had ventured so far into the future and had learned of your brother's ill-fate and your surrogate father's demise, you became so incredibly distraught that a figure whom you associated to be Death flooded your mind, giving you a glimpse of what you believe Hell is like. It was your mind's way of…" she snickered, "how would you put it? Giving you one Hell of a wake up call."

Dean huffed. "Why am I not a bit surprised?"

"But you did experience death. Very nobly I must say in that you attempted to save your brother's life—"

"What's so noble about it?" Dean interrupted. "It was for nothing. My brother still died. He was doomed from the get-go. I mean the damn crossroads demon wouldn't vouch for it. Sammy was right." He huffed again. "We are cursed."

"Hmmm…" the woman muttered. "Cursed or blessed? Would you have been so inclined to follow through with the deal had the demon placed it into fruition? Desperation, sometimes, is an impregnable dark force to combat. And it can place you in a rather difficult predicament. Far too few find their way back towards the light of opportunity."

"So are you saying it was a miracle that I was brought back? That I should be grateful?"

"It would be nice," she sounded a bit hurt. "And yes, if I may say so myself, miracles are a tad remote. But do try to remember what it is said about miracles Dean. They always come when you least expect it, when all hope is lost, and nothing but the darkness prevails. No matter what, they do happen, even if you can't see them for what they are."

"Puh…so easy for you to say," Dean spat. He tried to move his neck, still attempting to see who he was speaking with. "I don't even know what you are. Obviously you're not human."

The woman chuckled again. "The rumors are true, aren't they? No matter of the unordinary strikes past you Winchesters. True, I am not human. You'll learn soon what I am. But for now try to see past your suspicions and paranoia. I am here to help. But most of all, I am here to warn you."

"Come again? Warn me about what?"

"There's a reason why the demon wouldn't settle a deal with you. Most others in her place would be salivating at the deal, especially for you. However, believe it or not Dean Winchester, that there are demons that aren't in favor of things to change. The Crossroads Demon, and among others, do know of the consequences that will occur if this change ever does come about."

"What change is this?"

"It's hard to say, for I cannot simply describe it to you all in one sitting. I am running out of time as we speak. So listen carefully. There is a change coming. One that is dark, magnanimous, and vast. The entire face of the Earth will be forever changed due to it." Dean felt a rustling beside him and heard a heavy sigh. "There are those of us, on both the sides of good and evil, who are for it…and there are those who are against it. We are doing everything in our power to thwart it, but I do believe our effort will be futile. That's why I'm here."

"Reader's Digest version please! What is it?"

"You'll know soon enough."

Dean instantly became irritated. "Ugh, are you allergic to straight answers or something? Can I have something a little less cryptic, please?"

"Let's just say a certain change in the Balance, and you, your brother, and everyone else are a part of it. It's written in the stars."

At the last part, Dean became a little skeptical. Though interested –and to be honest a little scared- in what the invisible woman had to say, his interest couldn't help but be dulled by the _it was written in the stars_ bit.

"That's crap. Just more of _it-is-your-destiny _bull." He didn't care if he came off rude or indignant. This was all too much for him to handle. He was literally brought back to life and this bitch was telling him "Look pal. You were brought back for a reason. So do something about it." Well, she apparently seems to forget that Sammy is dead. His brother was gone, never to return. And according to that little glimpse into his future, very soon Bobby will be too. His family would be gone forever. So really? What was the freaking point?

"The point Dean…" the woman stressed his name. She sounded angry now.

Dean inwardly paled. _Shit, she's a mind-reader!_

"…despite your self-destructive tendencies, you do indeed have a purpose, a path of destiny that no matter what you do or what you attempt, you cannot avoid it. It is a stone walkway paved in front of you with no turns. It is your destiny, as it is Sam's, to confront this. Stand up for the right of humanity and fight."

The longer this conversation continued, the more Dean began to harbor that helpless feeling again. He was so confused. He hadn't the slightest clue of what to think or do.

"The pieces are already in place. Your father saw to it to that."

Dean growled. "You have no right to talk about my dad. He was a hero."

"Yes he was. Unfortunately his sacrifice for you was exactly what the demons wanted. Only just recently their plan has short-circuited due to your father's resilience."

"What are you talking about?"

"I have no time to explain. But know that if the demon's plans fall through, there are hard times coming. We are working on rescuing your father from the lonely depths. And if we succeed? Then the demons will be searching for an alternative route. So you need to be prepared for Hell's Fury. Your father warned you of this, did he not?"

Dean stilled, feeling like he had been suckered punch in both the gut and the throat. "He warned me about the psychics and about Sam. He said I had to save Sam, and if I couldn't? I had to kill him. But there was no mention of anything else. And we haven't looked because it's been so quiet on our end. What else is going on?"

Again the woman's rich, seductive voice was silent amongst the walls. It was a short minute where Dean thought she might have left, before he heard, "The period during your brother's illness, for you, was…quite painful. Your heart had no boundaries. Therefore you went to great lengths for your family, even taking your own life in the hope of saving your brother. This is good. That sort of passion will enable you to survive, and help and protect those you cannot help or fend for themselves."

"Sounds like you're giving me a mission here."

"Aye."

"I'm not agreeing to this."

The woman chuckled once more. "Nor have I expected you to. But soon you will learn you will have no choice nonetheless."

Dean mused over the dilemma for a brief second. What came next out of his mouth only was something that came naturally. "Fine. Then you bring my brother back. If you brought me back, you can do so for him. You want me to take the lead in the firing squad? Then I want him alive and healthy. I need my wingman for something like this, because I have no idea what in the Hell you want me to do."

"Hmmm, your stipulations are for deal-making."

"Damn straight."

"Then I'll tell you what I'll do. I have not the energy of restoring two lives. So I'll leave it up to you. You wake up. You have the choice of putting the gun back into your mouth, have a second tour of the ghostly realm, and pray for the best of your brother's sake, or..."

Dean's jaw stiffened at the first part of the proposition. He only knew by instinct what was going to be said next.

"…or let Sam follow through his course."

"You mean let him die?"

"If the stars call for it. You cannot alter destiny no matter what effort you put forthwith. For Destiny will always right itself in the end. All you can do is brace yourself Dean…because it's coming."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then the whole world will fall into disarray. Chaos. End of humanity. You get the gist." _Was she being sarcastic now?_

"Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Hold the phone! Are we talking about biblical end of times here? Cuz I'm not being paid enough for that sort of thing!"

The woman did not answer.

Dean sighed greatly, knowing there wouldn't be one. "Why me? Why am I chosen as the poster boy?"

"Because you're more important than what your pitiful ambivalent mind deems you as. I understand it's hard for you to comprehend, but trust me in this. You need to fight."

"You're not answering me here? What am I fighting? Demons? Monsters? Hell, fairies? What? Who are you and how do you know this?"

The sound of bells suddenly began to wail around. Dean clenched his teeth at the sound, feeling his head shake like it was put on high vibrate.

"That is my cue. I must go. Take care Dean. Heed my warning and put away all your fears, all your doubts about yourself. Become the man who you were born to be. The whole world is counting on you."

"Yeah, that's not a load. But wait a minute, what about Sam?"

The church bells were, thankfully, gone, but along with the sweet, warm voice.

"Hey! What about Sam? Don't leave you bitch. What about my brother?"

Again there was no answer. Immediately he began to feel the chill start to seep in. Whoever she was, she was gone.

He started to panic. "No. Don't leave me with that choice." The presence of wet warm tears filled to the brim of his lids. "Don't leave me like this. I'll do it again. I swear to God, I will. Come back here."

Nope. It wouldn't have taken a genius to figure out his mind wasn't in a good place at that point in time. His mysterious resurrector had gone MIA leaving him into a serious confused state.

"Smoke in the Water" was playing again. Hearing the incessant recording, it finally dawned on him that it was his cell phone ringing. And he had not a care in the world to answer it. More than likely it was Bobby who was trying to reach him. Never before in his life had he not wanted to be found than in that moment.

The ringtone continued to sound off.

_Jeez, it's gotta be extremely important. Sorry Bobby._

Dean continued to lay there on the blood/brain-splattered bedspread. He had no care in moving. Hell, he didn't care if he spontaneously combusted. He was left with a bat-shit insane choice; one he clearly didn't want to make.

Who was that woman and what gave her the right to put him in this position? Obviously if he chose the same route he had before, nothing good would come out of it. Perhaps it wouldn't be a phantom the next time? It might as well be the real thing…and that was something he wasn't willing to experience. That thing scared the shit out of him. But sticking with the alternative was not much better. Sammy still is going to die. What good could possibly come from that?

So basically what the witch said it comes down to this: the world (apparently) or Sam.

Dammit.

What is this thing coming that could be so bad? Was she lying? Was she toying with his mind somehow sensing his weakness for being the hero?

But more importantly could he truly make that choice? Could he break that promise to his brother in protecting him, saving him? Could he let his father down? Was that what she was referring to? Break the promise he upheld to his father in saving his brother for a bigger cause? How dare she!

It didn't make any sense. For months, things in the supernatural world had been quiet. There wasn't any imminent danger or threat. Well, there's the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He was the one who…

Dean froze. Instantly the recollection of what he saw in Bobby's house with YED breaking in and killing his surrogate father hammered into his mind like a sore needle. The demon was cooking up something and it had to do with his psychic-wonders. Maybe that was it. The YED was behind it all. And Sammy might have been a part of the bastard's plan.

_I don't think so. Over my dead body. _

That very well might be the case, he thought bitterly. With he being dead, there was no way to protect Bobby or the other hunters…or anyone. If he had been alive, there might have been a chance. Bobby didn't fight. He gave in, just like he had. Would that be the same for everyone else?

Ironically, it occurred to Dean that if Sam somehow had survived his heart surgery, then he would have been next on the demon's go-to list. And in his weakened condition, Sammy would have been ripe for the pickings. So in by his death, he was saved from the YED and the fate the bastard would have bestowed upon him.

Uh-oh. Here's the choice.

What's worse than Sam dying?

He shook his head as the answer was so clear: _Sam turning into a monster._

Dean stewed upon that note for a little while longer. He loved his brother with every fiber he had, even put a gun in his mouth for him. What does that say? But now he was faced with an even worse choice.

_I'm sorry Sammy. It turns out I have to kill you to save you. God help me!_

The music from his phone continued to play. He glanced over at the device dancing on the bedside table and sighed. "I'm sorry Sammy," he rasped, picking it up and clicking the ringer off.

Achingly, he sat up clutching the back of his head as it felt like a chisel went right through it. Bits of reddish chunks slathered the bulk of his head and under his shirt. A piece of gray matter fell off his ear and landed on his shoulder. Disgusted, he stripped out of everything and headed for the bathroom.

In the shower, and under the hot spray, he thought about all that had happened. With Sam's long road to nowhere, his ultimate sacrifice, his resurrection, and now his decision for the future? What he didn't get was, why does he feel the need to sacrifice everything for everybody? Including his brother? Was that his destiny all along? To be alone.

After his seemingly pleasant cleansing, he emerged from the room in a cloud of steam to the sound of "Smoke in the Water" again. He stared wildly for a minute before muttering "How did that turn back on?"

Shrugging, he went for his jeans.

Not even half-way pulling them up, the phone began to sing again. Annoyed, Dean charged towards it, intent on breaking the damn thing in half. However, in midst of picking the device up, something powerful, quivering, a shock if you will bore through him, and he could've sworn he heard a faint whisper, "answer it," glide through his aching skull.

Studying his phone for a second more, he reluctantly heeded the whisper. He barely pressed the button before the small room was filled with static shouting.

"SON OF A BITCH! THANK GOD! DEAN!"

It was Bobby. Of course, Dean wasn't totally surprised to hear the man raving like a lunatic.

"I'm here Bobby. What is it?" He answered nonchalantly.

"Dean! Dean! Dean!"

"Bobby. Bobby. Calm down, what is it?" Dean asked, now startled.

"There's a heart Dean. There's a heart. We've got news of it about an hour ago. Sam is being prepped for surgery as we speak."

"What?" Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. Sammy was dead. How could this be?

"Wherever you are, get over here now!"

"How is this possible?" Yeah, he was in shock.

"What are you complaining about you idgit? We need you here NOW!"

"Okay. Okay. I'm coming. I'm coming!" Dean stuffed the phone in his pocket and immediately started racing around the room, collecting his belongings. He threw on his shirt with the least amount of blood traces before donning his beloved leather jacket. Grabbing his keys and gun, he left out into the night.

The moment he exited the room, the straggler he found at the bar jounced up and down in front of him. "What's happening? You chickened out? What?"

"You didn't hear the gun go off?"

"No."

"Get out of here." Dean shot him an ominous glare. The jerk backed off as Dean continued on hastily rushing to his Baby.

"But w-what about the money?" The guy stuttered, now appearing desperate.

Dean paused, throwing his head back in exasperation. He shrugged, tossing the man another wad of cash out of his pocket before hopping in the driver's seat. "Keep it."

Back in his place in the driver's seat, he sparked the car to life and sped out of the parking lot, off towards his waiting family.

**Now did you really think I'd kill Dean off for good? :o Oh come on! I'm not that sadistic…or am I? ;) Yup, ominous warning there. Heed it well! Now you don't have to worry about waiting anymore, because I went ahead and finished the story. So I'll have the next posted in the next two days. :)  
**


	25. Our Solemn Hour

**Okay, now this chapter might be a bit disappointing for some of you….okay, a lot of you. But note that we're three chapters away now from the completion of this story; and I'm cutting some material out to get to the main and final plot point. So I hope you guys will still like it. Now that a heart had arrived, we'll see if our Sammy makes it!**

**Title from Within Temptation.**

**Chapter Twenty-Four: **

**Our Solemn Hour**

It would have taken _Wheel of Fortune's_ best Champion to unscramble all the rampant emotions swirling through Dean's mind. He was exhausted and he was dirty. Both his essence and body was taut, strung too tight from the worry and prevailing neuroticism that came with the wait on Sam's well-being.

The moment he arrived at the hospital, besides being bombarded with a million questions by an irate Bobby, he was ushered into the waiting room with the promise there'll be news soon.

Hand in hand, Bobby and Dean clung onto one another for dear life, as though they both were barely clinging onto that rope that kept them tethered to this miserable realm. Not one word was spoken between the two for an hour. They both stared hard either at the floor or at the bland wall, waiting, their minds frantically constrained by the prospect of unknowing.

"The heart actually was called in several hours ago," Bobby had said an hour prior, once Dean's sour mood had time to reflect and cool down. "They didn't call us until the damn thing was evaluated first, to see if it was A-Okay. That way they didn't get our hopes up in case it didn't pass inspection."

"And Sam?" Dean was so stricken the name barely came out as a whisper.

The old man just shook his head. "I just know they injected him with some stuff; called it an immunosuppressant before they rolled him out of the room. They were quick about it, so who knows?"

Dean merely nodded in understanding before falling into a silent reverie.

In the time he had arrived and allowed the shock of the news to seep in, the last wisp of adrenaline he felt earlier from Bobby's initial phonecall faded with a pop. His skeleton fell limp, boneless. All energy expunged. He yearned to fall into a sweet oblivion, filled with dreams of racing cars and large breasted women. But his mind was a downright abominable brat plunging his thoughts into a disparaging conundrum.

Since the epiphany of what the YED and the other remaining psychics could possibly have in store –beget and orchestrate the end of all mankind- Dean was in a calm state of cogitation, his countenance like that of stone. However, a vicious war raged on the inside, pillaging his thoughts.

One side of his conscience rooted for Sam's survival; while the other side was all for his brother's peaceful departing into the afterlife. While it was in his nature to yearn to see his brother open his eyes once again, a new dilemma had certainly presented itself: one that could not be placed to the side and be blamed on ignorance if it had been conducted.

If Sam had survived the surgery, and was on his way to make a full recovery, then the game would begin: Sam, either healthy or not, would be used as a pawn on the demon's grand Chess Board, to either be killed or turn into something monstrous entirely, and help bring about the so-called apocalypse. Was it even that? Whatever it was, it is bad enough to scare the mysterious woman. And if she was powerful enough to bring him back from the dead, then Dean knew that it had to be horrible to scare something like her.

Dean realized he would have to devote every waking moment of every day in tracking the YED bastard and put a stop to whatever plans the demon had in the works if he wanted Sam alive; anything to keep his little brother from falling subject to its evil. Sam, at any time beyond this point would be fragile, breakable. And it was going to be Hell rained upon everybody if something happened to him.

However, if Sam wasn't able to survive the surgery, then he would be pardoned from the Grand Scheme of Things and voila! Disaster averted. Dean would only succumb to the effects of depression and alcohol, and—wait a minute, he was already there…The ordeal would probably be more severe, but in the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about his brother.

Knowing that Sammy would be in a good place, the thought would give him kindling spirits, enough to probably take on a whole battalion of demons if it meant taking place in the crusade for humanity.

Never in his life had he foreseen himself contemplating a choice like this one. Just several hours ago –apparently, it still felt like another lifetime ago- he said farewell to this life in hopes of setting Sammy free of his fate. And now faced with this new dilemma? He'd much rather have put his gun back into his mouth.

It just never came easy, did it?

"You haven't said a word since you came in." Bobby broke the silence.

It was true. He hadn't said a single word since Bobby asked him if that was _blood_ on his shirt. He skirted around that question just like every other question the man asked.

"Want to tell me what that belligerent head of yours is thinking?"

Dean continued to stare.

"Dean?"

"No. There's nothing." Dean cleared his throat, disinclined to give a viable, believable answer. It would be much easier had Bobby called him on his cell. Since being in close proximity with his mentor, there was no way of ignoring the spoken question. "I'm just numb. I don't know what to think."

"I hear ya. Doc said it was going to be a few hours before we hear anything." Bobby turned to him with soulful and knowing eyes. They glistened fatherly as he said, "Maybe you should get some shut-eye. You look like something the cat dragged in."

"I don't know if I can," Dean barely whispered.

"Try. There's a couch over there. I'll wake you up if there's any news. I promise. Anything. Anything at all." At the lack of movement, Bobby had to reiterate. "I mean it Dean. I don't know where you were at or what you did, but I can see it did a number on ya. So go to that couch right now."

Dean blinked, rather slowly. Sleep sounded like a blessing. But yet he felt like Tantalus, where he could reach and reach for it, but not grasp it.

Bobby grunted for his attention.

Guess the old man was enforcing it this time, whether he argued for it or not. Tiredly, he nodded his compliance.

He made to move. Not only was his mind numb, but apparently his limbs were also for they wouldn't comply with his demands. With Bobby's soft push of the hand, he stiffly rose off the chair and lumbered over to the small plaid couch on the far side of the waiting room. The material was firm, the ridges of the dark plaid texture jutting into his skin, causing a most uncomfortable sensation. However, the charms of sleep was not so hard to finagle as he thought for the dark recesses of his clashing thoughts wove in over his vision, snatching him into its callous depths, and in under a second he was asleep.

…

The sparrow of time certainly had its hit of cocaine, and before Dean believed he had a smidgeon of needed, dreamless sleep, a firm hand was shaking him awake. Startled, he cowered for a brief second ready to go into action, but relaxed at seeing the slouched form of Bobby.

"Welcome back kid. Doctor's here." Bobby stated.

Dean gazed back and now that he could see more clearly, saw that Bobby looked drained. Heavy bags hung like tiny moons of flesh beneath his blue erudite eyes; copious lines of worry and age marring the rest of his features. Only the stamina from the many years of hunting giving him whatever reserve to make it across the tiny space.

"You with me kid?" Bobby continued placing a large hand behind Dean's back. "Let's get up."

Again, for the second time that night, Dean allowed Bobby to help him. Normally he'd complain about the assistance, but not today. He welcomed it more than ever, because at the sight of Bresley with his emotionless stance, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to keep himself upright.

The two men slowly approached the doctor, hand in hand, both with hopeful and yet terrified expressions.

Dean drew in a stuttered breath. "Doc. What have you got?"

Bresley took a deep breath, as he too looked wearisome and tired. It was well near six o'clock in the morning. What else did Dean expect? "Well there were some complications, but we were able to extract the heart with ease. Suturing the heart back in place, however, turned out to take longer than we anticipated, and the cardiopulmonary bypass machine for some reason was having technical problems."

Both Dean and Bobby fidgeted. They wanted a straight answer, not words that beat around the bush. Besides, what was with the harrowing details?

Witnessing the men's agitation, Bresley quickly announced, "But…it looks like he's going to make it."

Bobby let out a sigh of relief.

Dean closed his eyes, disheartened. _God help me._

The doctor now donned a hearty smile. "Sam pulled through. The heart began to work beautifully. We monitored him for a good hour and his vitals looked promising. BP was up, even his heart rate. The heart looked like a winner. And there will be little scarring once we patched him back up. But I tell you what. Someone has got to be looking out for that brother of yours. In all my years, I have never seen a heart to look like that. It was a shriveled mass; looked more like a giant raisin when we opened him up. I don't know how he was able to last this long…"

_I can_, Dean thought bitterly. _I wonder if this was the plan all along._

"…but he did," Bresley continued. "He's in the Open Heart Recovery in the ICU. He'll be in there for the better part of three days, in isolation. He should be awake in a few hours, but if you all would like to visit him, you need to put on protective clothing. It's just for his benefit, because now we have him on a vast amount of immunosuppressants. They're mainly there to keep his body from repudiating the heart. However, they also make him susceptible to infection and bacterial strains. That's why we only keep patients in the hospital after surgery for at least a week. Hospitals aren't as sanitary as you might think they are."

_No argument there_, Dean thought again. He continued to remain silent, as he was more interested in what the doctor had to say.

"While in ICU, we'll continue to conduct blood tests, because some of the drugs may affect some of his blood components like his leukocytes and erythrocytes. He'll also undergo EKGs and chest X-rays so we can keep an eye on the heart. If you do go to visit him, don't be alarmed if his vitals aren't up to par as we discussed. For the first two days, the new heart is only being supported by medications so it can recover from the shock of the transplant. Your brother is in a very precarious situation for the most part, but judging from how his body has adapted so quickly to the trauma, I do feel he'll make a full recovery."

"Oh thank God. That's good news doc." Bobby exclaimed.

Dean continued to remain silent.

"Now gentlemen, take a seat." Bresley announced, now very serious. His brazen eyes had said as much. "This is where I'm going to give you an idea of what to expect from now on. We'll give you a packet of information of listed details of what Sam should and should not do once he's discharged from the hospital. I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you, it's pertinent that he and you all follow these instructions, otherwise…well, you understand what the outcome would be."

Bobby nodded.

"From now on Sam will be on a list of medications. And he is to take these, no excuses, for a long time. Maybe for the rest of his life. It's about thirty or so. But they're, again, immunosuppressants to keep his body from rejecting the foreign heart. However, there have been cases of recipients rejecting their new hearts while on the medication. Inside the packet, there will be a list of what to look for if ever he does end up rejecting it."

"What should we be looking for?" Bobby asked.

"Flu-like symptoms mostly. Any unordinary signs of weakness, fatigue, anytime he's feeling lousy for long periods of time; fever, chills, headaches, dizziness, unexplained bouts of diarrhea, nausea, and/or profuse vomiting. Those are the traditional main ones. Inside your packet there'll be more to look out for."

Dean gulped. With what they do, fatigue, chills, headaches, and practically that entire list, they experienced on a daily basis.

Bresley continued. "Now we will be putting Sam into a type of rehab, physical therapy, and also a psychological evaluation as it is protocol. Something like this can weigh heavily on a person, so we admit a patient into a six month program just to keep an eye on them. Also we'll need to have Sam come in about two months from now to undergo a test."

"What kind of test?"

"A test for any subtle signs of rejection. We have learned through other cases that there might be a quieter way of rejection. Something called Chronic Rejection where basically it consists of tissue growth, like scar tissue, inside the vessels and it can cause a blockage which therefore kills the recipient. So we'll conduct a biopsy, called the Endomyocardial Biopsy, where we would insert a tube through Sam's jugular vein, collect a sample from the heart, and test it for any abnormal tissue growth. We could also do a blood test, but the biopsy is more efficient."

Dean was hard pressed to smile. Overall the prognosis looked good, even if his future didn't. But he couldn't help feel a bit alarmed at the sudden graveness Bresley exhibited.

"What is it?" Dean demanded.

"This is the hard part. Obviously Sam would have to undergo several changes in his life, steps he hasn't already taken, but I have to tell you the truth. Statistically, only eighty-eight percent of males survive after a transplant for a year."

"What?" Neither man could put a stomp on the shock that came with that statistic. "You're kidding me, right?" Dean exclaimed.

"No, I'm not. But about seventy-nine percent survive over three years; about seventy-three over five."

"Three or five years! What is the fucking point man? How is that much better?"

"But…" Bresley kept his composure, emphasizing what he had to say. "That falls down to statistics, a general consensus, not individually based. In fact, Tony Huesman, he was the longest living heart transplant recipient, lasting for over thirty years. He died well in his sixties from cancer. Kelly Perkins also underwent a heart transplant. Twelve years later, she's climbing mountains to promote positive awareness of organ donation. So you see? It's based on the individual. I had to give you a statistical analysis, one, because its protocol, and two, to stress that Sam must carefully follow that list of instructions, or he _will_ become another statistic."

Dean scowled. "You don't have to be so dramatic doc. We got it."

"Good. From now on, Sam will be on a stricter diet than usual. A heavy restriction on calories, fluids, salts, fats, carbs, and especially cholesterol, and no alcohol. Again look for more details in the packet. He can exercise. In fact, we recommend it. But only swimming, maybe walking, and cycling for the first eight weeks after he's been discharged. No heavy lifting. No sit-ups, push-ups, or pull-ups. Anything to keep the strain off his chest. The sutures are absorbent, and so they'll disintegrate with time. Any heavy lifting might pull them apart."

"Got it."

"Alright. Any questions gentlemen?"

"When can we go to see him?"

"It depends. Maybe in an hour; maybe tomorrow. I'll let you know soon." Bresley smiled.

Dean gave a weak grin of his own. "Thanks doc…and, uh, thank you again…for everything." He wanted to let the doc know how much he appreciated the effort, even if he was practically dead on the inside.

"You're welcome." And with that, Bresley took his final leave.

Dean made to take another seat, but he was intercepted by large arms. Bobby took him up into the biggest bear-hug Dean had ever experienced. All air was expunged in one squeeze, the rest of him turning crimson as though his head were a cork about to pop off. Wrapping his arms around the plaid back in return, Dean couldn't help but feel a very hardy shake emanating from the man.

Concerned, Dean pulled back and saw that a steady river of tears flowed gently over the rims of Bobby's orbits. Immediately he took him back up in the embrace, forever grateful to have Bobby by his side, happy and overall…just there.

"It's over. I can't believe it's over boy." Bobby sobbed quietly.

Dean said nothing, for he knew it was far from over. Hell, it was just the beginning of the trial of hard times and suffering. And the bitch of it all was…he has no idea of what to expect, only that it was coming. More than anything, he would have blindly fall to the idea that his resurrector was lying. But deep inside, his instincts knew that she was right. He had felt something coming for a long time; ever since his father gave him the message to kill his brother.

That choice dangled in front of him like a hypnotizing string. Watching over Sam with an eagle's eye was only going to be effective for so long. The easier thing to do was to kill him; end the boy's suffering right here and now. But could he do that? His heart broke on the inside once more and he exhaled deeply. _What should I do?_

Instead of remaining silent, Dean pulled back and said, "Yeah, it's over. But I know something that's going to make _now_ all better."

"What?"

"Let's go see Sam." With ill-regard for rules, Dean pushed his old friend out the door and towards the recovery unit.

…

For days, Dean and Bobby waited anxiously for Sam to wake up, even had watched the heart monitor for any change, for any signal at long periods of time. Nothing had them more worked up than in seeing the outcome of the long awaited surgery. Dean prowled the corridor, pacing relentlessly, having no where to go, or mainly wanting to be no where else.

Bresley had informed them that it might take some time and to not worry so much. However, the telling hadn't mollified their agitation any less. For days, they waited on the outside of the isolation room, peering in the window, watching the third member of their family sleep. Sam looked dead from the outside, but deep in his heart, Dean knew Sammy was alive and kicking, judging by the many twitches in his gargantuan feet.

Sam, sometime following the procedure, was weaned off the ventilator. Standing outside the window, Dean had to admit it was a sight better than seeing his little brother enshrouded and hooked up to so many machines. His original bronze complexion returned, a rosy tint enveloping his cheeks, the beep in the background a steady rhythm rather than the occasional irregular beat.

The bandaging surrounding Sam's chest was hard to pull his eyes away from. It was the entrance point of Sam's new life, his new opportunity…his new curse.

There was a point where Sam had woken up. Dean, upon hearing that, began to feel the steam protruding from his ears, angered that he was informed after the fact. But Chloe, Sam's main nurse in charge, had said it was for a brief second or two, and Sam was so disoriented, he wouldn't remember a thing. Sam promptly fell back into repose after that, and two days later, had yet to reawake.

Twice Dean and Bobby dressed up in the ridiculous plastic apparel to visit. To Bobby's astonishment, Dean spent more time in lurking about the room, checking for faulty wiring, feeling for weak spots in the walls, even checking the security of the window, in case someone or something were to fly through it. At one point, Dean brought in some invisible ink and had drawn the Key of Solomon over the door and under Sam's bed. Bobby had never seen him so paranoid before.

The same occurred when Sam was transferred to his own unit in recovery, where they didn't have to dress up, and could spend as much time as possible with him. Dean would adorn the ceiling with certain relics, mask everything with scent-concealing inscents, and make a line of salt around the entire room. Anytime Bobby questioned his motives, Dean would shrug them off.

"You're acting like you have the devil on your ass." Bobby stated, taking vigil by Sam's bedside.

"Something like that," Dean offhandedly answered, sprinkling salt from a tiny vial on the window.

"Oh great Dean," Bobby rolled his eyes. "What did you get yourself into this time?"

"Nothing Bobby. I'm just taking precautions," Dean looked up from his work. "And you should too. Especially with Sam being so weak right now, anything can happen."

That shut the old man up. He sighed greatly. "All right corporal. Carry on."

And Dean did. Everything, by the time he was finished, looked more like they were prepared to endure a supernatural H-Bomb.

"You know, if Sam wakes up to all this, he's gonna think _you_ were the one who jumped off the deep end, not him. This'll probably worry him more than anything else."

"Nah," Dean shrugged it off. "He'll feel right at home."

"I certainly hope you're right, because I'm getting a little worried. It's like you're fending off against a hitman."

"Oh come on, it's not that bad."

"Really?" Bobby's eyes bulged out of his sockets. "I wanna say I'm standing on at least two inches of salt here. What's up with you?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"Dean. I may be old, but I ain't stupid." There came that grueling relentless scowl. "What's going on with you? What are you suddenly afraid of?"

"Shhh…"

"Don't shhhh me boy. That's damn rude. I oughta tan your hid—"

"Bobby," Dean interrupted. "Look."

He pointed to Sam, and there what the old man saw produced the biggest, brightest smile he had ever done since before his wife died. Sam's eyes were slit open, the dull greens shining wondrously up at him. Bobby leaned forward, taking up Sam's hand. "Hey there kid. Welcome back. God, we've missed you Sam."

Weakly, Sam smiled. The monitor in the background beeped loudly.

"That's great," Bobby's eyes glistened once more. "It looks like Chloe's breaktime is over. I'll go get her. Be back in a minute."

"Okay Bobby." Dean had a grin of his own that was grander than gold as he watched the old man leave. He leaned closer to Sam's face, also taking up his hand and squeezing gently. "Hey Sammy."

Sam blinked.

His smile lingered a little longer before faltering, and a most sadistic thought occurred to him. He envisioned himself stripping Sam from his nasal cannula and holding his mouth and nose. It would be so easy, especially now with Sam in such a vulnerable position; all in the hopes of saving him from the demon's plans.

The furrow between Sam's eyebrows deepened, a sense of concern emanating from his eyes.

Instantly the sickening vision elapsed, forcing Dean to replace that vivacious smile. His big brother instincts overcame any logic concerning the matter. He looked deeply into his brother's soul. _I've made my choice._

"I told ya you would make it dorkus, but you didn't believe me. Tsk. Tsk." Dean casually jested, shaking his head.

Sam's smile grew a little bigger. The lines around his face still indicated he was exhausted, but the glint behind Sam's mossy green irises told him his kid brother was back.

Dean was glad to see that smile, especially without the tubes, the machines, or anything else swamping his brother's wan face. "You're as good as new now bud, new heart and all. Doc expects you to make a full recovery."

Sam's bony fingers wearily squeezed his hands.

Dean understood the message quite plainly. He shook his head. "No, I'm not leaving you Sammy. I won't ever leave you. Nothing bad is going to happen to you as long as I'm around. You have my word."

His smile grew even bigger.

**All medical information was a conglomerate of details from various medical sites. And yep, Sammy made it. We're almost done. I'll get the next one up in a jiffy! Seriously, I finished it! ;p**


	26. Oasis

**Alright, many of you probably have a lot of questions. Well, hopefully this chapter will clarify a few things; wrap things up so to speak. And if you still don't get it, you might want to resort back to chapter's eight (9) and nineteen (20) to get an idea. This is the penultimate chapter. So get ready.**

**Title from Tarja Turunen**

**Chapter Twenty-Five: **

**Oasis**

"You're doing great Sam. Just one more set and it'll be over." Bolt, the Physical Therapist, encouraged.

Sam refused to acknowledge the short bobble-head instructor as most of his concentration was in pulling a long, needed circuit of oxygen. Rivulets of sweat ran profusely down the sides of his cheeks, brows, and neck, coating his body. His biceps struck a cord and began to sing soprano at the build-up of pressure. But he pushed through the pressure. He pushed through the pain, because in his mind and new heart, he wasn't a quitter.

Besides! It was just freaking pull-ups.

In his arrogance, three sets of ten pull-ups was a walk in the park. He soon learned the hard way after the first set.

It's been three months since his transplant and already his PT consultant deemed it necessary to try and begin build-up of his upper body again. The bulbous, dewy-eyed dwarf, whose blonde hair looked like he pressed a finger into an electric socket, was persistent, driving him far beyond, what he believed, was his limit. But Sam forced himself to make the mark each time. He knew what was at stake now that he was on the mend. Anything could happen, at any time, and so through will alone, Sam pushed himself to his top potential.

"That's great Sam. Two more," Bolt said, keeping a firm, yet unassisted grip on his legs. "Come on. Deep breath and now exhale slowly on the way up. There you go."

It was a struggle on the way up to the wooden bar. Sam huffed and puffed, his complexion developing a shade of purple as his chin slowly reached its goal. He relaxed, and along with whatever stamina he could muster, began the last one. A roar of frustration and humility escaped past his raw cords, beckoning the will of a man on his last testament to life, until he at last made that goal.

"You did it Sam," Bolt announced with a beaming smile. "Ten more than you ought to have done, but ya did it buddy. Have a seat."

Panting, wiping the sweat off his brow, Sam clumsily released himself from the bar and made his way to a bench seat not three feet away. A glare from the row of spic and span windows caught his eye and he tripped over his feet. Bolt caught him from under his shoulders in time and lowered him to the plastic cushion.

"Whoa. Take it easy. Not too fast. Smashing your face in is no way to be impressing the chicks."

Sam chuckled while offering his thanks. It was a clumsy move, he'll admit, but it wasn't like it could be helped. Three and a half weeks since the surgery, the hospital dished out a round of appointments at the gym a mile from Chysler. Meeting Boltus for the first time was unnoteworthy, nothing exceptionally outstanding. He seemed like an ordinary gym counselor; kind, caring, and eager to show off his little gym full of equipment. But after a few sessions with his instructor, the kind and caring guy became the kind, unremitting, 'you're-not-done-until-your-dead' guy. And after every two hour workout, his whole body felt like a wet noodle.

Sam took a gander around the small gym, noting its blinding white walls, its cleanliness, the only TV monitor, the even spacing between all the machines designed for every muscle imaginable, and even noting the odd smell of licorice combined with chlorine. He gave a small hint of a smile. At least it's demon free!

Bolt left and came back with a dry cloth. Sam nodded his appreciation taking the rag, and then began to wipe it across the back of his neck and face. Bolt pulled a stethoscope out of his pocket, placed it on Sam's chest, and looked at his watch.

With an impressed smirk, he said, "Good. Good. Your heart rate's a bit over a hundred."

"Really! Feels like it's going faster than that," Sam exclaimed breathlessly, toweling the terry-cloth over his arms, admiring the bulk of muscle mass that was returning. Before, the muscles in his arms were firm, bulging peaks. During his illness they shrunk more than half their original size. Now thanks to the short Richard Simmons, they would be back to their regular bulk in no time.

"No. No, that's normal," Bolt explained quickly. "Since your vagus nerve was severed during the operation, your heart can only pump out about a hundred or so beats per minute."

"Oh!" Sam was amazed by that tidbit.

Bolt took away the warm metal, replacing it inside his pocket. "But exercise? That's practically the only way of regaining a new bill of health. Keep up the excellent work and your heart will become stronger, able to test new limits. If I could make a guess, I'd say you'd be able to do marathons in about a year. It just takes time buddy."

"I hear ya." Sam breathed.

"Ya did good today Sam. Now hit the showers and I'll meet you back out here for sign-out and instructions for what to do next week."

"Alright, thanks Bolt."

"Anytime."

~o()o~

In the showers, Sam took his time, rather than hopping in and out as part of his five minute fashion. The steaming stream alleviated most of the aches and pains from the recent workout, but still the constant throbbing was incessant. Sometimes he dreaded coming to PT, because by the end of each session, his chest took on a pulsating, violent beat. The last time he felt his heart about to explode from his chest like this was when he went to a Ted Nugent concert and was standing next to the towering amps for four hours. He was nearly deaf for three days afterward; to the point where he had to feel the hood of the Impala to see if the engine was running as he turned it on. Dean was passed out drunk in the passenger seat.

Sam gave a short laugh as he reminisced how there was a shit-eating grin on his brother's face the whole way home as he ranted and raved about the disadvantages of being partially deaf. Dean was such an optimist back in those days.

Finishing, he dried himself off and got dressed. Collecting his gym bag, he was on his way out when he passed by the tall mirror stationed a few yards from the shower stalls. Glancing at it, at himself, Sam debated with himself, wondering, curious to take a peek again. Hardly ever did he want to see it, but there have been several points over the past few months were he couldn't help himself. Sometimes it was hard in turning away from it. It having been a reminder of his latest trial, of where he nearly perished, and of course, the same mark designating where someone else had died in his stead. It wasn't that he was sad or guilty over whoever's death who gave him new life, but still there was that heavy shadow in the back of his mind that acted as a spike, driving in painfully so that he won't ever forget.

Dropping his bag, Sam slowly began to creep up the white tee until most of his bare chest was exposed. Fumbling with the fabric, Sam lifted it higher until he saw it. There, directly beneath his left pectoral, was a four-inch strip of whitish smooth flesh. No bigger than the width of his pinky, the scar stood out like a sore thumb. Gradually it was dwindling in size, becoming smaller, thinner, as the months wore on. His usual bronze color was returning and hopefully soon the scar will blend in. Sam wasn't insecure over it, or timid if ever he were in public. It was something, a piece of him now that he couldn't help but idolize, make it a challenge to fulfill that purpose, ensure that whoever's sacrifice will not be in vain.

"It's not going to get any uglier, you know," said a voice.

Sam looked up in the mirror and saw it was Dean, leaning against the doorjam. He issued out a small smirk, averting his gaze back to the scarred flesh. "I know," he sighed. "It's just too…I don't know…I just can't help but wonder."

Dean ambled his way closer. "Can't help but wonder about what?"

Sam pursed his lips, focusing more on the scar. "You know, who were they?"

The furrow between Dean's eyebrows met in befuddlement. "You mean the donor?"

"Yeah. It just makes me wonder if I…if…" his voice trailed as he let down his shirt.

Dean studied him for a brief second and said, "If you can make it up to that person? Keep their heart in good shape; make sure they didn't die for nothing."

Sam smiled. "I hate it when you do that," he shot a glance. "When you know me in and out like that."

"Hey, it's my job. Says so in between the lines on the contract," Dean jested amicably. "Besides you've got so much going on in that freaky head of yours, you wouldn't be able to tie your shoe without me."

"Bite me. That's so not true." Sam snapped.

"Oh yeah? Why don't you look down at your feet for me sport?"

Sam looked down and to his dismay saw that one of his tennis shoe laces had come undone.

"Seriously, they taught you that back in the second grade," Dean continued his jest.

"Shut up," Sam muttered, bending down to complete the job. He looked up, "So where have you been? Skirting around the premises with salt again?"

"Yup. I told ya. Until you're one hundred percent again, we're not taking any chances."

"No argument there," Sam rose up from the ground, collecting his bag. "But do you think we could find out who it was? You know? To pay respects."

Dean formed his bottom lip into a 'U'-shape. "We could. God knows I would love to find out who it was." _Maybe their family could provide some real answers as to what might happen, cuz nothing's happening yet._

"Maybe Bolt will know, or at least, have an idea of where to look."

~o()o~

Unfortunately the instructor hadn't a single clue.

"Nope, sorry dude. All he or she ever says to me are who are coming and what goals they have in mind. Nothing about who or what goes on or with any information on heart donors."

"Do you know how we could find out?" Sam asked.

Bolt made a face—more of a mix between a shrug and a shake of the head while his eyes bulged out of their sockets. "The only suggestion I could give to you would be to ask your doctor. Any information about your case would be in his files."

Sam huffed, a bit annoyed. "Yeah, I figured as much."

"Of course, more than likely the dude will probably say its concealed information. Especially if it's Bresley. That dude usually acts like he's got a stick up his ass, and he won't say _nothing_. Always creeps me out with that scowl of his." Then Bolt imitated an expression of Doctor Bresley. "He'd say, 'I don't think so. That is usually confidential information that does not need to be read or uttered. Now Bolt, I want my patients in tip top shape. If I see one bit of flab or any iota of an arrhythmia, then it's your ass.'"

Sam snorted. "Bresley would say that?"

"Well…all except for that last part, but that's the general idea, yeah." Bolt flashed a cooky grin. "So if you really want to find out who gave you a second chance? My advice, since Bresley is your doctor, either let it go, or steal the file. But who would do such a thing?"

"Yeah," Dean drawled, turning a mischievous grin towards Sam. "Who would do such a thing?"

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head, while ghosting a small smile. He figured it would come down to that.

~o()o~

Pellets of water the size of grapefruit hit and splattered the windshield, coming down in such a hellish force, Sam wondered if there was a tornado nearby. His panic increased a couple of notches the longer he was kept waiting. His knuckles bore white from gripping the passenger handle so tightly; all of the fingernails chewed down to the quick on his left hand. The minutes were piling on and Dean had yet to return from his adventure of marauding Bresley's office.

Sam had spent as much time as he could in stalling the doctor. The man was a tough nut and so after ten minutes, Sam gave in to the urge to dash back to the Impala, in belief that was well enough time for Dean to stalk the files. He was entirely grateful not to be under the direct stare of the giant doctor, because he swore that if he had uttered another Thank You, the man would probably have thought he were harboring estranged feelings and would come next time with a box of chocolates. And he certainly did not want any mutual feelings of affection coming from that man.

To be blunt about it, he was just too damn scary.

Half an hour later, Sam felt ready to puke. For sure, to be taking this long, Dean must've gotten caught. There was no other conclusion.

The rain was coming down in buckets, drenching over the car, making it virtually impossible to see. Sam's foot tapped impatiently in the floor-board as he continued to feast on his nails. "Come on Dean."

Not long after, a dark figure was seen sprinting around the front of the car and all that was met was the screeching of the driver side door being opened.

"Dude, what was taking you so long?" Sam grumbled. "Seriously I was about to have a heart attack."

The creak of the door gave off the sound of nails on a chalkboard as Dean closed it, tarnished from too much rust and use. Dean joggled his head, showering a wave of water over Sam and his garb. He peered at Sam humorlessly. "Okay, one…" he pointed a finger, "that's not funny. Two, don't doubt the skills man. I'm a tad rusty, but I'm still the best clepto there is. And three, Bresley put a padlock on his door, so I had to find another way in." He coughed, patting his knee where several dust-bunnies fell off into a heap on the floor.

"You climbed through the vents?" Sam was a little perturbed as to why Dean would go to such lengths.

"Yup. Oh, it gets better." His brother added a little smirk. "Apparently you didn't stall the dude long enough because before I could grab the file, he came in. I had to quickly hide under that sofa chair of his."

"You fit under that thing?" Sam asked, visualizing the lounge chair in the first right corner of the office in his mind. He remembered sitting in it, practically falling through the soft, thin material to the floor. And Dean was able to fit through the three-inch gap? His head was that small?

"Believe it or not," Dean continued, and Sam suddenly had the vague suspicion that Dean didn't want to. "The bastard came in, and immediately sat on the chair. And I always thought the Jolly Green Giant was weightless—"

He was interrupted by a cacophony of giggles. "He sat on you?" Sam went crimson.

"Not only. And I swear to God Sammy he had to have gone on the biggest Chili Binge ever. No man has ever made me cry like that before. I think my nose hairs are still burnt," he then examined his nose in the rearview mirror.

"You mean?" Sam eyes went wild catching on to the meaning. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God…" he turned away to hide his growing hysterical expression, as yet another bout of insane cackles was brought forth.

"Yeah." Dean sent a comical side-glare as Sam's laughing session soon began to wane. He passed over the file as he intoned sardonically, "Anything for you Sammy."

Sam mirrored his earlier sarcastic grin. "Thank you," he said taking the file from Dean's outstretched hand. He immediately opened it up and was shocked to see such microscopic handwriting. Bresley's notes looked more like Dean's handwriting back in the first grade, dizzying and illegible. "Jeez."

"That's what I said. Let's get out of here. I stink of shit!" Dean piped, pulling the gear shift into Drive and taking off through the pelting rain.

Sam chuckled. "It'll take me awhile to read through all of this, but I can manage." He chortled some more. "Sorry Dean, I wish that you were Doctor Stinkface free."

"Yeah, and I wished you'd just shut the hell up, and get to reading." Dean groaned maneuvering the Impala onto the main road.

Sam laughed some more, before his eyes read over a sheet of paper and immediately that effulgent smile was wiped clean off. It was plain as day, in front of him, the name of the donor. His jaw dropped and a mist began to settle in his eyes as he recognized the name…

Caroline Carlyle.

…

Upon learning of his donor's name, Sam, the moment he arrived back at Bobby's house, went to the computer and began his wizarding skills at retrieving information. By the time the day had heralded its end at the stroke of midnight, Sam had pages full of Caroline's life: her latest address, her high school and college career path notes, even the time and place of her death. Before he retired to bed, the last thing he jotted down was her parent's phone number and address, intent on making a trip over to the Northwestern coast in the morning, regardless of his brother's opinion or not.

And as expected, Dean wasn't so thrilled.

"You're kidding me right?" His brother exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"It won't be that bad. Oregon is only half a day away."

"No, add on another day to that, Gizmo," Dean huffed. "I'm going to need more notice than this."

"Dean, we've been on a five-day ride in a shorter amount of notice before. How is this any different?"

Dean stuttered, shaking his head. Clearly he wasn't in the mood for making the trip. "Ozzy was a big affair. I'd sell my left nut to go see a concert as awesome as that again. Maybe next time it'll be Metallica? Eh?"

"Dean," Sam spoke softly, his eyes developing an extra coat of moisture. The puppy-dog eyes were in full effect. "I need this. This is important to me. Please. I'll never ask a single thing of you ever again, I swear."

"Riiiggghhht."

"I swear." The dimpled smile came out as well.

Dean's eyes rolled to the side and he chewed on his tongue. He downright hated it when Sam did that. The little bastard won out every time, always managing to win over every argument, obtain any information needed, and even scored free ice cream at Dairy Queen. "Whatever. Get in the car," He swung a hand towards the door. "Bobby, don't wait up."

"All right. You boys be careful." The old man's voice reverberated through the dark hallway.

~o()o~

The drive to Oregon was shorter than expected. And to Sam's delight, they made the trip within a span of six hours, approaching the small town of Paisley around midday. Sam gawked out the window, amazed by the scenery. Groves of pine and timber the size of redwoods towered on each side of the road, yielding to a beautiful array of greenery. Strips of sunlight peeked through the tips of the trees striating the way before them in glimmers of gold. Patches of marigolds and lilac junipers embroidered the sides of the roads, as though they were leading the path to their destination.

_Now let's make one thing clear here. I am not overly sentimental_, Sam thought._ It's just pretty._

Once passing the sign announcing 'Juniper Garden Living', Sam and Dean were introduced to a classic magazine-ad worthy suburban neighborhood. Rows of two-story white houses stretched for a good block on each side, enshrouded by bulky looming Poplars and Cottonwoods. Neat manicured lawns were at the front of every house, including high-dollar vehicles of every kind: Porsche, Rolls Royce, BMW, and to Dean's liking, a pristine midnight blue with white stripes, 67' Shelby GT 500.

"Ooh God! Get that baby into a garage, you dumbass." Dean squealed, turning off the street.

Passing onto another street, they were met with more of the same: houses of different shapes, the same color, and many more hot rods to choose from. Dean was adamant they somehow had crashed on the way and this was his heaven. The part before he found himself stuck in a memory. His mouth watered and the inner dog inside his soul was running to the end of its chain, barking like mad.

He turned to Sam. "Sammy, come on! You gotta let me take one home. I'm going for the Shelby." His eyebrows did a little dance.

Sam snorted. "Forget it Dean. I still got a conscience you know."

"So? Get drunk. I'm sure your inner demons will be in on it," Dean suggested, but grew confused at Sam's deep scowl. "What?" He stilled, remembering that Sam wasn't allowed alcohol. "Oh yeah. Damn. Oh well, I'll talk ya into it later."

"Not a chance."

"Partypooper."

"Whatever." Sam went back to reading the directions off his notepad. "All right, drive down about a mile on Eggleston. Take a right on Free Mason, and the house should be the fourth one down on the right."

Sure enough, following the directions, Dean was pulling the Impala into a driveway a few minutes later. He paused to survey the residence a second more. The house was different from the others in that it was a dirty beige color; mold and water stains marred the bottom paneling masking a portion of the paint chippings and rot. The lawn was unkempt: a collage of green mixed with dead tarnished patches that crunched under Dean's soles as he exited the car.

Dean had an initial opinion about the place but decided not to voice it. He eyed the 88' Ford Mustang and its grimy, battered license plate: SPUT-SPT.

"Ha, we've got a sputter!" Dean cracked, turning towards Sam. His joyous smile instantly turned into a frown at witnessing his sibling's daunted expression. He cleared his throat. "So are you absolutely sure about this Sammy? I mean, what do you intend on doing, really?"

Sam shrugged. "Just paying my respects Dean. I owe it to Caroline."

"But you didn't even know the chick."

"Actually I did," Sam replied climbing the stairs to the porch, observing the various cracked and weathered sundials littering the top space. Two cob-web induced chimes in the form of shells hung on either side of the baby-blue door. He quickly rapped on it, eager to do what he came for.

"Dude, are you serious?" Dean asked him in astonishment. Catching a glimpse at the chime, he tugged on one of the strings, snickering at the whirring sound it produced. He turned back to Sam. "When? Where?"

Sam had every intention of answering Dean's inquiry, but his attention soon was turned towards the creaking of the door. A wrinkly green eye peered through the crack and a rough "who is it?" was said.

"Uh," Sam fumbled, a bit taken back now that he was face to face with a parent. "Um, I'm sorry. Mrs. Carlyle?"

"Yes. May I ask who you are?"

"Yes ma'me. My name is Sam. Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean. I…uh…we came here to ask about Caroline."

"What about Caroline?" The door opened and there stood a medium height elderly lady with short, cropped hair the color of snow. Heavy wrinkles cascaded down the sides of the woman's temples, more present around a thin mouth; the rest of her features smooth, curving neatly around a pointed face. Her eyes spoke volumes, dulled by the years of hard work and tragedy. She had a small body, and was dressed in a black sweater and skirt.

Sam was at first struck speechless. The woman looked to be an older version of the young woman he met, most definitely her mother. "Ma'me, we just came to pay our respects."

"Oh," she looked out in the yard, inspecting the Impala. "Kansas? You boys came a long way, haven't cha?"

"Yes ma'me, we left the road from South Dakota this morning."

"Oh my," her voice was rough around the edges, but it had a hint of sweetness to it. "Then come on in gentlemen. Let's get you off your feet. You must be tired from all that traveling. Come in. Come in. Have a seat."

They were ushered into a small canary yellow living space and were greeted by a husky man sitting in a white leather sofa chair, his gaze fixated on a small box television directly opposite from his seat. Mrs. Carlyle gently pushed them to a larger leather couch adjacent to Mr. Carlyle. He, too, had green eyes like his wife, but his head was matted with thin, bristly peppered hair, matching the same color as his moustache. Never once did he acknowledge the Winchesters, just stared at the TV, watching reruns of "Who wants to be a Millionaire?"

"I'll get ya something to drink. Lemonade all right?" Mrs. Carlyle asked.

"Yes ma'me. Thank you." Both Sam and Dean said in unison.

Once she had left, Dean casually glanced around, admiring the many shelves of various ballerina and glass figurines. And below those were an entire enclave of bookshelves filled to the brink of large and small tomes.

_Hymph, a librarian's paradise. Go figure_, he thought.

Dean looked again and saw the whole room was filled with books, except for a tiny shelf directly over the television. Within the small space was a plethora of crystalline portraits of a young woman. Several were older photos consisting of the woman at different ages. She had a unique smile; soft, caring, and lively. Her irises gleamed of deep emerald contrasting against a milky pallor.

His head tilted to the side. She looked awfully familiar.

Mrs. Carlyle had returned in under a minute with two glasses full. She set them down in front on a mahogany coffee table, and then took a seat across from them in a Victorian high-back chair, crossing a leg over the other. She picked up a large black remote off a mahogany table to the side, punching in a button in mild irritation. The TV shut off casting the room in a haze of inept silence. Mr. Carlyle continued to stare at the black screen, as though he were trapped in a state of bliss.

"So," Mrs. Carlyle's voice pierced through the stillness. "How did you know Caroline?"

Sam shifted awkwardly on the couch, his mouth pinched as he debated amongst himself how best to go about answering the question. Dean hadn't acknowledged his inner qualm as he was too focused on the picture. _Where have I seen her before? This is killing me._

"Uh…" Sam began. "I didn't really know her all that well. I met her in a park somewhere on the far side of North Dakota. I um…I was having issues with my health and she, uh, she was talking to me about her organization…in how she normally helped people like me."

The wrinkles on the woman's face creased deeper as she gave a beaming smile full of sadness. "Yes. Caroline loved her group. They worked hard and for a good cause too," she huffed. "I couldn't believe it when Caroline came to me right after she turned eighteen and said she wanted to start something like that. She was so youthful, there was no stopping her. That girl was like a tank, and so I let her have free reign. That group went on for a better part of six years." Her lips pursed into a thin white line as she wiped them with a small handkerchief.

Sam cast his eyes down to the wooden table, finding more interest in the swirl patterns off the lemonade glass. He took a deep breath before saying, "That's amazing. And that's why I'm here…I just wanted to say thank you. Without her, I wouldn't…" he trailed, licking his dry lips. "I wanted to give my condolences and thank her, mostly, for her sacrifice."

Another glimmer of a tear flashed across the woman's dull eyes. "Yeah, well she did a lot of things to help people. That's what she loved to do. We'll be forever proud of her and all of her accomplishments."

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. Erm…" Mrs. Carlyle shrugged, her petite frame leaning forward in her chair. "You know as they say, you can never overcome the loss of a child. Little by little you try to…" she sniffed, "…well anyways it was so long ago."

Sam twitched. "How long ago was it?"

"Oh uh…she had the accident…um…about four years ago. To the day three months ago…"

Sam froze, his brow furrowed in confusion. _Did she just say _four years ago_?_ He looked to Dean, who was still ogling the photograph.

"…since then I've been going to every promotion for the fight against drunk driving. She was twenty-three years old. A month later she would have been twenty-four had that fellow decided not to have a few drinks that night. Silly, really. What a terrible mistake like that can reap."

"I'm sorry, did you say four years ago?" Sam asked.

She nodded. "Yes."

"And her sister? She died from heart failure, right?"

"Sister?" Mrs. Carlyle was genuinely surprised. "No, Caroline was an only child."

Sam was becoming more baffled by the minute. "I swear she told me about her sister named Sarah."

"Sarah? No, Sarah was like her sister. They were best friends, and had grown up together. Those two had been through it all: puberty, prom, even went to the same school…but…" she sniffed again. "Oh Good Heavens. It was so tragic for Caroline."

"Why? What happened?"

"Well," she coughed, "Caroline had come down with a severe congenital defect in her heart…oh what was it called? Oh yes, cardiomyopathy." Her eyes glistened once more with pain. "The doctors only gave her maybe a month to live at most. They said she needed a transplant in order to survive. It was so sudden and out of nowhere, Carl and I didn't know how we were going to find the money. And that's where her organization came through. But the problem was there wasn't a heart available. The network searched and searched, and yet there was nothing. Caroline was slipping by so fast, the doctors told us to say our goodbyes."

Dean fidgeted, now listening in, knowing all too well what that felt like.

"And so Sarah…" a long, heart-wrenching sob broke through, "Sarah…came into the hospital one night, gun in hand, with a note taped to the front of her shirt, and in the ER lobby had pulled the trigger at her head. She killed herself, having given up hope. But because she didn't want Caroline to die, she had given up her heart. Prior to it, she had several tests done to ensure that it was her heart that was compatible. We should have known something then what Sarah was up to, but it didn't hit us until directly after."

Dean became real still, surreptitiously sneaking a glance at his brother. That sounded all too familiar.

Sam became real still as well, allowing it all to sink in, wrought with immeasurable sympathy. He wouldn't have known what he would do had Dean done something like that for him. Just the thought of it made him sick.

Mrs. Carlyle then stood up and grabbed a picture frame off the shelf. It was of Caroline with her arm wrapped around the shoulders of another young girl; blonde, dark eyes, honey skin, and pointy face, just like her best friend. "This is Sarah here," she pointed, placing the frame on the table.

Sam eyed it, and thought about the day the two girls had shot the picture, and their sunny expressions. Did they know that their life was going to take a turn for the worse? And how long after that photograph was taken did Sarah decide to take her life to save her best friend? A feeling of guilt plagued within him and he felt nauseated.

Mrs. Carlyle snaked a glance at her oblivious husband, noting his frozen demeanor. "Doctors at first argued over the ethics of Sarah's actions. But soon, very soon, they decided to follow the will and do the surgery. Caroline came out of it okay. However, upon hearing of Sarah's suicide, she became an empty shell; someone devoid of life and energy. We kept thinking it might have been a side-effect of the surgery, but later we learned that wasn't the case. She carried on with her organization of course, but it just wasn't the same. Nor did we expect it to be. She became a different person entirely; reckless, a workaholic, paying no mind to the all the medications she needed to take. God help me, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if she purposefully let that oncoming car hit her."

Both Sam and Dean shook their heads dismally, unable to find the words to say.

"Caroline died two years later on the same day Sarah died. She was coming home from the cemetery. We had her body cremated and put up in the mausoleum at Granby right next to Sarah's memorial. If you like, it's only a few miles down the road. We visit her every year on her birthday."

Sam swallowed past the lump lodged in his throat. He coughed and slowly stood up. "I'm sorry to have bothered you and to bring up part of the past. I can't imagine how hard that must have been. You have both Dean's and my condolences. Thank you for taking us in."

"Absolutely. Must you leave already? You've had such a long trip."

"It's alright. We've had longer trips before, but we appreciate the concern," Sam gave a weak smile. "But we oughta get going. We've been tangled in your hair for too long."

Mrs. Carlyle smiled. "It was no problem. I'm glad she was able to meet and inspire such fine boys like you two. Have a good one now."

"Thank you." Sam muttered, and dragging Dean out by the arm, left in a hurry. On the outside, he continually shook his head, completely astounded –and bewildered- by all that he had heard.

"I don't know Dean. Maybe she got the timeline all mixed up. Maybe Caroline's death is so fresh, she feels the need to distance herself with it, make it less painful. I swear to God the paper said she just died. She had to've. Just months ago I met her." The furrow between his eyes deepened further. "It couldn't have been four years ago. That doesn't make any sense. I have the right house, right?" He looked back at it, and then to the mailbox that read in faded gold lettering: "Carlyle".

"Huh," he huffed, noting that Dean was still staring off into space. "And so do I have Sarah's heart? Just one thing passed on down the line? Would doctors even do that? Transfer a patient's heart into another patient? I don't get it. That even sounds stupid. She had to have been confused, that's the only feasible conclusion."

He turned to his brother. "What do you think Dean?" Dean didn't answer, but continued to stare and Sam swore he heard him mutter while tapping his chin, 'where have I seen her before?' "Dude? Dean!" He snapped his fingers.

Dean jerked, his head snapping with a loud crack in his direction, causing Sam to cringe. "What?"

"Were you listening to a single thing I said?"

"Sorry, the, uh, antenna ears weren't set up yet. What'd you say?"

Sam huffed in irritation. "Don't worry about it. I'm just confused as Hell right now, but it's nothing I can't handle. Anyway, let's go hit a diner or something, cuz I'm starving." Opening the door, he slid into shotgun, omitting from view.

Dean snapped out of his festering detective thoughts at the sound of food. "Diner? Yeah that does sound good. Get me some pie. Oh yeah, so saucy," he went to open the door before a certain thought went through him like an electric zapper. "Wait a minute, diner…" his voice trailed; his mind quickly switching back into the detective stage. "Diner…Diner. Holy crap, that's it! The waitress. She was the waitress who talked me into going back to the hospital."

His mind suddenly felt like he shot himself in the head again. Because then he instantly remembered where the sweet, soft voice that was his mysterious resurrector came from. "Oh my God."

It was Caroline.

_Even if you don't realize it, there are those who are listening, those that are watching over us, and will be there for whom that needs us. _

A faint whisper flourished in his head. At the same time, a soft breeze blew by forcing Dean to look in the direction of the road. And there, to his wild astonishment, was Caroline staring furtively across the street. And in her arms was the disfigured cat Sam had named Dude, with the black limp one perched beside her feet. Ivan's amber eye glinted at the same time as Caroline's, and Dean swore that he saw the cat give off a tiny smirk.

And then it all came together in that moment. The night Caroline sat down to talk to him, giving him a piece of advice to stand by his family; the cats showing up when Sam learned about the failure of his heart and how they somehow were comforting; the paramedic Bobby told him about –the one named Caroline-; the day Kylie spoke about guardian angels and his yearning for a miracle to happen; and then the happenstance that a heart became available at the same time he made his choice.

He got it now. It was all part of the higher-powers-at-be plan for Sam to survive –albeit a fraction or so- for there was a bigger picture involved for him, for his destiny; as it was his destiny to save Sam, stick by his side and protect him. And Caroline?

To an outsider, it wouldn't make a single lick of sense. But to him? He understood, and in a way, was terrified by it. Caroline was a protector for those who were about to make the same choice as her sister Sarah. As Sarah had laid down her life for the one she cared for, he was about to do the same. And Caroline, now as a guardian was there to save him, therefore she was his angel. She was his gift.

Caroline's melodic voice filtered through his head as he stared.

_Remember what it is said about miracles Dean. They always come when you least expect them_…_when all hope is lost, and nothing but the darkness prevails._

Caroline flashed a placid smile as a large dump truck rolled by, and in a glimmer, the girl and the cats had vanished. Dean let out a huge breath, feeling his heart race.

_No matter what, they do happen, even if you can't see them for what they are._

He then peered towards the sky and calmly whispered, "thank you," because he knew then his mother was right –that there were angels watching over them. He knew then that he was wrong, that there actually might have been a light for the future; and he also knew, taking a long look at his brother sitting in the passenger seat…that he got his miracle.

And now? He knew that he had the fight of his life on his hands to keep what was given to him.

**Okay, this is the penultimate chapter. One more to go, and get ready cuz it's bad. However, I do have an epilogue prepared. Yeah, you know? That **_**one**_**. The one I said you guys will kill me over. Well, I won't post it unless you guys want a sequel to this. I do have a second story in mind (oh boy, do I have a plan!) and the epilogue is basically the end of that storyline. So if you want a sequel, I won't post the epilogue and I'll get to work on the second story. But if I don't see a lot of yeses, then I will post it, and the whole story will be done with. So now it's up to you guys. Do you want a sequel, or do you want a heart-breaking, a-probable-end-to-Joby's-fanfiction-career epilogue?**


	27. The Promise

**Well, the votes are in. It looks like there will be a sequel after all, but no epilogue. Beware there might be a little bit of a wait for it. But know that my plans are to complete the story first before I start to post. That way you guys won't have to wait for an update as long as you had to for this. It was ridiculous and I'm sorry for that. **

**But anyways, prepare yourselves. This is the last chapter for **_**Home is Where the Heart is**_**. **

**Chapter Twenty-Six:**

**The Promise**

_Two months later: _

Convivial scores of chortles echoed across the small open park, drifting amongst the scattered groves of stocky timberland, giving off a fun and carefree ambiance to the rest of the park's inhabitants.

Dean burned with laughter. Doubled over, clutching his side, he could care less if he were being a disturbance, as he was seemingly unable to put a curb on the sonorous cackles. Sam -on the other side of the grassy field, in motion of trying to catch the air-born football- had slipped in a patch of mud -and instead of landing face first, was put into a spin, his large Ape-like arms creating a windmill action before he made a Superman dive straight into the ground.

Rosy, hot patches grew across Dean's shaven cheeks; his innards squeezing tight over the interminable shockwaves produced by the resounding barks. His brother's expression as he slowly looked up and spat out a mouthful of chunky earth and grass was all too Looney-toonish to forget. And what was equally hilarious was that Dean could picture Sam as Wylie Coyote with the big eyes and wooden sign before and after he made a blunder.

He straightened up and asked through an ensemble of snickers and chuckles, "You okay dude?"

"I'm good," was the muffled reply.

Dean continued to laugh. It had been a long time since he had laughed as much…or frankly had felt so unbothered and jovial. Since his epiphany of Caroline's involvement and subsequent warning about the Yellow-Eyed-Demon, Dean had relentlessly scoured for clues about the demon's location and supposed apocalyptic coup-de-grace.

For days and nights, weeks on end, he pursued different hunts, trapping and interrogating, and exorcising bountiful amounts of demons –the number of possessions far exceeding his expectations, and confirming that there was an underlying plan in the mix- and the search for any of YEDs' psychics. Along with a guy named Ash from the Roadhouse, a computer nerd he recently met and had learned was part of a family that were good friends to his late father, he found the number of people with pasts nearly identical to Sam's was a staggering low number. To his dismay however, upon reaching their addresses, he had learned those few number of people either had been killed or was missing. And there was no telling how many others were out there.

With each trip, the stress of not procuring an answer, or any other clue began to accumulate. Despite Sam's assurance that he was up to par in going with him, on this crazy crusade, Dean was adamant Sam stay behind closed doors under Bobby's protection, until he had returned home. It hadn't taken long for Sam to realize that something was amiss, and that Dean was conducting some serious detective work for something big, and that possibly it had something to do with him.

Luckily he hadn't uncovered the flap that revealed the YED under the secret door, but for Dean, it took a lot of cunning on his part to mislead his brother, steer him away from unraveling the truth. He hated lying to Sam, but knowing the tenacity of his brother's strong-will, recovering or not, Sam would have found some way to aid him on his quest for the truth. And exposing Sam so soon after his transplant would have made him an easy target for the YED. A sliver of sweat ran down his spine. He knew it wouldn't take long for Sam to figure it out.

Several times during the prolonged investigation, Dean found himself out in the middle of the street, having no other alley to turn to, calling out Caroline's name. Obviously if the chick had known that something was going to happen, he might as well obtain another answer from her. Twice he stood outside for hours yelling; others he had found a conjuring spell, namely to summon those who are being invoked.

And much to his chagrin, Caroline never showed.

After his latest trip, he returned home worn and overall exhausted. Any remark or inquiry as to his whereabouts would set him off, snapping like a Rotweiler trying to protect its supper. It was only upon Sam's insistence that he had a break from it all and took a walk with him to the Sioux park that day. Little did Dean realize that the snot had brought a football. But any objection to the activity, Dean found none. A small smile adorned his lips as Sam tossed it to him.

"You obviously gotta release some steam dude. So here!"

Sam threw a heavy toss, the ball hitting a soft spot between Dean's ribcage causing him to grunt. The need for retaliation was imminent and he threw the ball not too hard, but hard enough to make Sam run for it. About twenty minutes in, Sam made the world's biggest facedate with Mother Earth, and Dean really began to feel the stress loosen up. A breakthrough of sunlight poured into his heavy heart, lightly uplifting the murky blackness that invaded it. Hopefully soon, he and Sam will be demon free, and the dark paranoia will be gone. He admired the ground for a brief second before tossing the football again. Somehow he doubted they will ever be free of the supernatural.

Strolling back, wiping the chunks of mud off his shirt and face, wiping the residual on his jeans, Sam lightly tossed the ball back. It missed Dean's fingers by a few inches. Still giddy, Dean went to retrieve it, coming back to his respective spot with a slight hop in his step. And that's when he noticed Sam sitting Indian-style on the ground.

Alarmed, Dean raced over. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Dude, chill. Everything's fine. Just was dizzy for a second." Sam answered breathlessly, still with that dimpled smirk. "I overdid it again. M'just sitting down for a minute is all."

"Okay. Man, you scared me for a second. Thought I had to E.T. phone home or something," Dean took a seat next to him, plopping the ball into his lap. "Do you need any water or anything?"

"Nah, I'm good. I just need to catch my breath."

"Okay." Dean settled in, watching his brother work on his breathing techniques: pulling in a deep-seated passage of air, and slowly exhaling. Sam inhaled deeply a second time, and blew out through his mouth softly, a prolonged expression of immense concentration ingrained in his facial.

Dean looked up at the caw of a bird, taking in the serenity of the park. He turned to Sam when an idea hit him. "Hey, I've been thinking. What would you say about getting a tattoo?"

His sibling's stare of concentration welded into a stare of intense wonder.

"Nah, I'm serious." Dean shrugged. "You know, let's do something smart and cool. I was thinking have a pentagram done right there"-he pointed to the area of his chest just over his heart- "We've never had one. Let's live a little, don't cha think?"

Sam's gaze never faltered. "Dean, you know I can't get one."

"Why not?"

"Needles, Dean."

"What? You scared?"

Sam laughed. "No. Needles are classic sites for bacteria. Easy access for infection dude…" he made a face stating he was surprised Dean didn't know about that… "With my medication, can't take the risk, remember?"

Dean bit his lip upon understanding. "Sorry," he glanced away dishonorably. "Sorry man, I forgot."

"It's alright. Hey, I'm still trying to get used to this too, so don't feel bad. We'll find another way for anti-possession."

"Yeah…well, already ahead of ya. It's not perfect, but…" Dean's hand dug into his jean's pocket, where then he produced a silver locket in the form of a pentagram. Sam's jaw fell agape at the small charm, catching the several lines of Latin engraved on the back. He caught the necklace in his palm and studied it. The engravings were the Latin spell for a demon exorcism.

"Just in case there's ever a chance you forget the words." Dean smirked. "I went to a shop in town and had the guy etch in the phrase. That way you'd be protected at all times."

"Thanks Dean," Sam was in utter surprise. He pulled the silver chain over his head, watching the trinket land smoothly against his chest; the silver pentagram glistening ever so slightly in the glimmering sunlight. He returned his gaze back to his brother. "You didn't have to buy me a necklace."

Despite the awkwardness of that statement, Dean merely shook his head. "I didn't."

"Where did you get it from?"

"From mom."

Sam's shock grew to an alarming proportion. "M-m-mom…" he stuttered.

"Yeah. I found it out of some of her things…you know, some of the stuff dad kept. He had it in a storage compartment not far from here. And I figured you would like to have it."

"Like it?" Sam gasped. "I love it."

"Good." Dean lightly tossed the football to him. "Mainly I wanted you to have a reminder of her. She was beautiful, you know. More so than any buxom honey I've been with—and I don't mean that in a weird Oedipus way," he quickly said after the grossed out face his brother made.

"'Bout to say," Sam played along, pretending to blow out a long relieved sigh. "Cuz that would be awkward."

"Shut up bitch. I'm just saying Dad had taste, and I'd put my money on she's the one where we get our good looks from."

Sam had a short huff before he donned a rather serious gaze. "I bet…but, uh, you mind telling me what all this is about."

Dean returned the serious look, now feeling that this was the right time to be sentimental. This was the best time to express just what he was feeling, to release all the unneeded burden he had been holding onto for so long. Now he wanted to confide in his brother; make up for all the times during Sam's illness where he had wronged him.

He twitched a little, pulling at the blades of grass and twirling them around his fingers: a nervous habit he had since birth. Looking on into his brother's eyes, noting the worry, the doubt, and the curiosity shining within the hazel flecks, he concealed whatever hidden emotion that might give away his guise of control. Because surely he knew he had a bare minimum amount of rein in curbing the runaway horse that was his and Sam's destiny. He had not seen Caroline or heard from her, nor any other apparent "Good Guy" about the so-called "warning". So despite fighting the oppressive feeling of powerlessness, he had to remain onto that last bit of reserve to protect his brother; still be the big brother Sam needed –and hopefully wanted- at the present time.

"You asked me once to talk about her, and…I didn't." Dean cast his gaze down and began to admire the yellow patterns along the stalks of grass. He knew what Sam would say; what he would look like; what he would feel…and he didn't need to see it.

Sam squirmed as Dean knew he would. "It's okay," Sam's shaky voice announced. "It wasn't the right time to ask."

"No, it was." Dean averted his gaze back to Sam's and looked him square in the eye. "You were on your deathbed, and one of the last things you wanted to know was about our mom. I could've told you a day's worth of what I remembered…but I didn't. It was selfish, and for that, I'm sorry."

"Dean. Don't feel bad. It's alrig—"

"Sam, you could've died, and I would have had to live with that." He turned away again, tugging at more grass strings.

"Okay, then, what was she like?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Dean huffed. "Honestly? Just like you." He could see Sam swell with pride at that answer. "Bullheaded. Strong. Always fought for her beliefs and never backed down from an argument; any in fact. I remember a time when…it was three nights in a row Mom and Dad got into a fight and she won every time. Kinda sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Sam snorted in agreement.

"But whatever I do remember of her, she always had the biggest, sweetest smile. That thing could light up a football field…and it was contagious. She'd sing to us every night, tell us that angels are watching over us…and, erm, would dress us up for the church's play. Well, maybe not you, but she certainly did that to me."

"What did she dress you as?"

Dean pursed his lips. "I'd rather not say."

"Oh come on. You can't just give a little teaser and not air the whole episode?"

"Oh yes I can."

"Dean!"

"Fine," Dean huffed in defeat, scowling. "She dressed me up as a clown." Sam instantly froze stock-still, either from laughter or fright –he couldn't tell. "You got it. Red nose, huge wig, even had a baton to go with it. I was the freaking Tiny Tim version of Bobo. The whole church had put on a play with clowns; forced all of our Sunday class to participate. And man, for the life of me, I could not reason why mom would dress me up as the fat one!"

Sam choked. "The fat one? Oh man, you gotta tell me about this."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Dammit. Well, yes, the damn church put on this play about clowns, and we…we even had this little dance to go with it. Of course, Mom thought it was a brilliant and cute idea to put a pillow in my overalls: one in the front and one in the back."

Sam shrugged. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"Uh huh," Dean's scowl became heavier. "Unfortunately part of our dance number was to get down and roll…yeah, like you know? Stop, Drop, and Roll. So I got down and boy did I roll…" he scratched his head, "but, I got stuck."

"Stuck?"

"Yup. Those damn pillows, man, got in the way. It looked like freaking Humpty Dumpty fell off his wall and couldn't get up. One of the adults had to come out and lift me off the floor to finish the dance number," He sighed shaking his head. "Never been on stage since. Turns out it doesn't suit me. But mom, she always insisted that she make our costumes. Ha, I remember it was your first Halloween, a couple days before uh, you know…and uh, she dressed you up as a…as a caterpillar."

"A caterpillar? What the…why a caterpillar?"

"I don't know," Dean shook his head. "But to me, you looked more like a little green di—"

"Okay, I got the picture." Sam interrupted, wiping some of the dirt off the ball.

"Hey, you asked!" Dean laughed, before becoming serious again. "But she was great. From what memory serves, she was the best mom there was. She did right by us. Sometimes I really do have to wonder what things might have been like had she been around."

"Me too." Sam agreed. "Dad and I probably would have argued a little less."

Dean smiled. "I'm sure."

"So now are you going to tell me what ole Yellow Eyes has been up to, or not?" Sam asked, wiping the residual patches of mud off his shirt and face.

Dean's resplendent mood came to a shattering end. He knew the kid would figure out the truth but not this soon. Guess the typical evasive answer of "I'm searching for a different monster this time for a friend" wasn't as effective as Dean thought!

Sam twirled the ball between his hands, shrugging. "Dude, after a while, it was kinda obvious," he gave off a short smirk, "But I get why you didn't tell me, and I'm not mad. M'just curious."

"Um…" Dean coughed, choking hard against the solid lump that sprouted in his throat. The seemingly pleasant afternoon was suddenly shot dead.

"It's okay. I've been thinking about it for a long time now, even before the operation. Why haven't we heard about the demon yet? Why it's been so quiet? I kind of figured that it had to be up to something. I just wanted to hear you say it," Sam gently encouraged, throwing back the ball.

Dean caught it, now spinning it in his grasp. He shot him a pleading expression. "I didn't want you to find out this way…and dammit, I knew you were going to figure it somehow."

"What can I say? I'm just gifted that way."

"Bitch." He sighed, suddenly finding himself heavily fatigued. Dean looked at Sam with hard eyes, still the indecision of relaying his proceedings present. "There isn't much that I know that I can really tell you. That's what I've been trying to find out," he licked his lips. "And since your Megamind has figured it out it has something to do with the demon, I guess I can tell what all I know. But I don't want you involved. I don't want to expose you just yet."

"You don't have to expose me Dean. I know I'm not ready to be out in the field. But that doesn't mean I can't help you research or in some other way. So what's been going on?"

Dean sighed heavily again. "Again I don't know what's been going on. All the demons are keeping it top secret. Threatening to exorcise their sorry asses back to Hell does nothing to them now. It's either that they don't know, or whatever he's up to, their boots are shaking at the thought of it. In a way, it's almost like the freaking bastard just fell off the face of the earth. But I received word a few months ago—"

"By who?"

Dean shook his head and dodged the question by continuing. "There was word that the demon's up to something; it's cooking up something big. And…" he trailed…

"What is it Dean?"

Dean bit his lip, now fearful of his brother. "I'm just…I just have a feeling Sammy it has something to do with you and the other psychics."

To note his brother's expression at that moment would have been impossible. Several emotions flitted all across Sam's face, highly evident in those expressive eyes of his: a mutual consensus of hurt, shock, anger, fear, and perhaps resilience. Dean knew that upon hearing that, his stubborn little brother, might get a little feisty.

Shakily, Sam asked, "Is he coming for me Dean? Is that why you're scared?"

Dean sent him a pointed look. "I'm not scared."

"I'd be a bit more worried if you weren't. I mean, has there been any other word…about the others?"

"I haven't found any. And that's why I'm wrung out, because nobody seems to know anything right now."

"Maybe that's the plan Dean. Instead of planning a kamikaze attack, he might just be going through the back door." Sam started to pant, his countenance wavering with a cross between hyperventilating and fatigue. "So maybe we gotta take extra measures…more salt, more devil traps, more relics, more—"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on there. Take it easy," Dean grabbed a hold of his shoulders. "We don't know anything yet. So for right now, you're gonna chill. You can't handle this right now."

"I'm fine Dean," Sam clenched his teeth.

"No, you're not, and you know it. Don't fight me on this Sammy, please. At least until we receive a legitimate piece of intel, just stay put. I already have a guy on the inside asking around. So until we have something, there's nothing you or I can do about it."

"Is that why you've been freaked out these past two months?" Sam slightly stammered. "I've noticed it since we've left the Carlyle's that you've been acting a bit off. Was it right around then you found out?"

"Yeah," Dean lied. "But that's all I know Sammy, I swear. I mean the demon…he's…he's out there somewhere. That one we can't stick our heads into the sand to. But we'll manage. We've done it so far." Sam was shaking so bad, Dean had to bite his tongue.

"Dean, come on man! Don't be dumb!" He clasped his quivering hands together, bringing them to his mouth. "If Yellow Eyes is out there and he's brewing something…One day he'll come, and we don't have the Colt, we don't have any good line of defense. Surround us with buckets of holy water won't even do the trick against that miserable bastard. Face the facts dude, we're sitting ducks!"

"Sammy—"

"You can't deny it either Dean." Sam's eyes gleamed of fear. Dean really began to wonder if telling him was such a good idea now. "And I think you're out there all the time, because you're trying to figure out when he's coming. Aren't you?"

Dean's lips sealed shut. He wasn't going to oblige to Sam's inquiry, at least not yet. So he settled with, "Listen to me. You gotta get this out of your head. Freaking out is not going to help us in any way shape or form. And I'm telling you Sammy, nothing is going to happen to you or me…"

"And if it does?"

"…then I'll go to the freaking ends of this Earth to save you. You and Bobby. That bastard already wrecked our family twice. He's not doing it again. And I'm going to do everything in my power, and then some, to make sure he never sees the light of day again." Dean was deadly serious about what he said, and he made sure Sam felt the full force of that statement.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

For a brief second there, Dean contemplated about revealing to Sam what John had told him before he passed away. The urge to say something was so strong, it nearly fell off the tip of his tongue. But given the state in which Sam handled the news about Yellow Eyes, he decided to keep it under wraps. He had half-expected Sam to get mad, throw a punch at him, or something, but his brother hadn't, enforcing the decision to not relay what his father had said about Sam. At this stage, he didn't want to cause any more devastation on Sam, even at his own expense; even if the guilt was killing him.

"I promise Sam," Dean said again. The most important thing was for Sam to realize that no matter what happens, he'll always be there, through thick or thin, life or death. Sam would never be alone in battling against the demonic forces that were sure to come. Dean was his brother, the other side to the coin of their relationship. He was the black sheep, the ram. The one and only who will put everyone else before himself to ensure the livelihood and happiness of those around him, especially his family, no matter the cost. And Sam was exactly that: the very epitome of what he strived to maintain in this life of hardship. He was his family, the very foundation of why he kept pushing through and never backing down.

Because without Sam or Bobby, without his family, what could possibly be so worth living for?

"Thanks Dean." His brother replied, his appreciative beaming smile returning.

And he was glad to hear it. He was glad he made his choice, to stick by his family's side, be the horns of the bull. At least until Sam was one hundred percent again, they could fight alongside, having each other's backs, doubling up on the odds of defeating the enemy firsthand. Because one way or another, they were better off together; they were stronger together; and that's exactly why he thought Caroline brought him back. There was no point in splitting them up, right?

A faint buzzing sounded off somewhere nearby. Sam fidgeted at first and then immediately dug into his pocket, where he pulled out his cell phone. The phone vibrated crazily in his hand, the light on the bronze screen flashing.

"What is it?"

Peering at it, Sam said, "It's a text message from Bobby. He says to come home now. Something urgent just came up." He started doing some mad finger movements with the phone.

"Really? What else does it say?"

"Nothing. I just sent him one back asking what's happening. I guess we can head back now and see." Sam rose steadily off the ground. He looked to Dean, concerned. "You don't think he might have found something, do you?"

"I don't know, but I guess there's only one way to find out."

Shrugging, Sam began to lope alongside Dean, taking the lead in heading back towards the Salvage Yard. A newfound excitement flourished throughout the brother's. A certain anticipating hope that perhaps there was something unveiled about the YED's location, his plans; it began to simmer and boil, supplying both with a vivacious energy and thrill.

Sam panted lightly. He checked his phone after a few minutes. "Bobby hasn't texted back."

"He's probably just away from the phone," Dean answered. "We'll find out what's up in a minute." His stride lengthened. However eager Dean was to find out more about their predicament, he couldn't help but encapsulate that knotting, twisting feeling in his gut to be nothing more but a bad feeling. But, surely, he was just being a bit pessimistic. Bobby had good news… he had to.

The yard came into view a few minutes later, and within a few strides, the Winchesters were jogging up the sodden, wet marshland of a driveway. Piles of rusted down and broken vehicles littered the sides, but they paid no mind in dodging around the heaps, anxious to get to the front door. Sam looked at his phone again, and still saw no message waiting. His pace slowed, now drawing nearer to the house.

"Bobby," he called, but there was no answer. "Hmm, that's odd."

The closer Dean approached the house, the more entangled and alarming the twisting grew. He scanned the surrounding junk cars, noting nothing out of order. Over in the driveway, parked near the porch, was a lilac blue 65' Ford Mustang. He paused, having seen the car before. He couldn't place a finger on why it was so familiar, but it wiggled and wormed in the back of his head.

"Dammit, where have I seen this car before?"

"Bobby, we're back." Sam continued to call. He climbed the steps to the dilapidated porch. "Bobby, you didn't answer your text. Are you alright? We're not in any kind of danger, are we?" He gave a short laugh.

The word "danger" instantly struck Dean, churning his gut further. He cast a side glance over at his brother who was entering into the house, and then back again at the Mustang. For whatever reason, it rang a bell.

A bright glint from the pristine window hit him in the eye. He shielded it with his hand, catching a glimpse of the weathered, grungy license plate reading JGMT-DAY. Deciphering the plate wasn't hard, but instantly it triggered a distant memory, one he had tried so hard to forget. Dean suddenly quivered, now immersed in the day where he killed himself, and the mini-sojourn into the future. His eyes grew wild then realizing where he had seen this Mustang. It was the car sitting in Bobby's driveway when the YED had come to visit on that gloomy day in August.

It was then Dean's heart dropped into his stomach. Today was the thirty-first of August. "Oh my God! SAMMY! STOP!"

But it was too late. Sam had already opened the door.

It was as though Hell's forces were at Dean's heels. He had never sprinted so fast in his life. "SAM!" He screamed, leaping over the porch in one stride. The door was wide open and Dean somehow could smell the faint, biting scent of sulphur. His brother's frame was just inside over the threshold.

A gunshot rang out.

Dean saw the gun go off, the pistol bucking back in the demon's hand. And somehow he even saw the direct path the bullet was heading. With all the strength he had, Dean grabbed a hold of Sam's shoulders and pushed his body harshly to the side, stepping in front of the oncoming missile at the last second. The bullet hit and all the air was gone. Clutching his abdomen, a fiery pain exploded, shooting up in all directions over his midriff, all over his body, forcing him to be weak. He fell to his knees.

"DEAN!" Sam's anguished call sounded from the side.

There was maybe a second where he looked up and saw the YED -the short man with cropped hair like he had seen during the vision of the future; same attire; same smug grin- with the Colt poised high. Smoke billowed from the gun, illuminating the demon's sinister yellow eyes in a wicked way. He caught the grin again, and in that instant, his and the demon's thoughts were symmetrical: that was the last bullet the Colt had; that his one and only chance of ever destroying the demon was embedded deep into his gut.

Sets of footsteps echoed closer. "DEAN!" His brother called again.

His whole body quivered from the strain of keeping upright. He fell back against the doorjam, a piddle of glutinous blood exuded from his lips. Sam was by his side in the entire second it happened, calling his name, lifting his arms up. But before Sam could even push him out the door to safety, an invisible force strongly caught him by the naval and slingshotted him backwards. He scratched at the floor, kicking, grabbing for anything, but the pull was quick, and in the very next second, he was face-to-face with the demon.

"Well hello champ. Long time, no see." It said.

Sam looked on in both fear and utter hatred. He wrestled against the preternatural force the held him suspended in front of the short man. And to no avail, it held him firm.

"My. How have I missed you Sammy?" It ran a cold finger down Sam's cheek in an endearing way that made Sam shiver in repulsion.

Dean groaned falling forward onto his knees, where then he began to crawl. "Get…g-get…a-a-away fr-from…him," he gasped.

"You," the demon proclaimed, wiggling a finger. "You stay put." Dean's body followed the direction in which the finger wove, and he suddenly found himself careening into the side wall; where piles of books and papers collapsed on top of him.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. He looked back towards the demon. "Stop it. Just stop it."

"Oh I will, but I have business to attend to first." It then sent Sam sprawling into a chair. He once again tried to counteract the invisible weight, but in doing so doubled the force, completely immobilizing his hands and feet.

In short, they were very, very screwed!

"So sorry to barge in on you like this, but I figured a well worthy welcome was in order…especially since after our last meeting together. Wouldn't you agree, Sammy?" Sam merely scowled at the question. "Yeah, I thought so too," it continued. "Can't thank you enough for not pulling that trigger, dear boy. I am in your debt."

"What do you want?" Sam growled.

"Oh, I'm just here to collect what's mine, that's all. The old man was a bit disinclined to let me in the door. That was terribly rude, you know? I only asked politely," it shrugged.

Sam fought against his hold. "W-what did you do to Bobby, you son of a bitch? You hurt him, and so help me God, I'll kill you. I'll kill you—"

The YED suddenly laughed, its cackles like that of hungry wolves working together during a hunt. "Oh that'll be the day when Sam Winchester, psychic wonder, kills me off. You've got no more bullets left in that gun son, nor have any other secret weapon…so unless you can tap into that Einstein of yours, I ain't going anywhere."

Sam was seething by the end of that. His teeth were clenched so tight, a tooth chipped. Still pinned to the wall, Dean gasped some more, spitting out more of the accumulating blood welling in his mouth. He looked over at the two, fighting, his vision losing focus. The pain was growing faster. The fight, his will, was failing. He had to do something. Where was Bobby?

"As for John Deer, your new Papa, who took you in, fed you, even suffered through with you during your little crisis Sammy…eh, he's a bit tied up at the moment."

"WHERE IS HE?" Sam bellowed.

At a frightening speed, the demon stepped closer, clamping two firm hands on Sam's shoulders. The spirit lowered the man's head next to Sam's ear and spoke with such a rich treachery, it made Sam's soul shake. "Your savior, so to speak, well…let's just say he's doing a little bit of a reenactment." He looked out the kitchen window.

With bated breath, both Sam and Dean followed its gaze, and the sight they saw had them stricken with nausea. Bobby was outside, and like the demon had said, was strung up against a tree. Only he wasn't strung. Rivulets of dark liquid ran from his feet and hands, leaking profusely from iron pegs impaled through the man's palms and ankles. The instant Dean realized it, the instant his heart died. Bobby was crucified. And judging from the stillness and the ashen complexion, he appeared to be dead.

Thick globs of tears ran down Sam's cheeks at the sight, his breath stolen away from the shock of it. "You're dead," he rasped in sorrow, still staring at the sight. "You're dead. I'm gonna kill you."

"Eh, sure you will," YED slapped his shoulder. "Ah, but don't hang in the past. What you need to worry about is yourself right now. Now let's get back down to business, shall we? Why am I here? Well, I supposed it'd be that obvious. I'm here for you Sammy. It's game time kid. Time to get to work."

"What are you talking about?" Sam spat.

"My plan for you Sammy, remember? I wasn't lying when we last met. I have a plan and it's just now coming together. But the last piece of the puzzle, I don't have yet," the demon's wicked smile grew larger. "And that's you kid. Now that you're on the mend, you can take part for what I have in store. Just imagine: power, good living, people groveling at your feet, never scared of ya, the list goes on. So what d'ya say? Ya ready to make something of your life now, be the King?"

Sam glared. "You've got another thing coming if you think I'm going to do anything for you?"

"Yeah, I figured you might say that. But be as it may, I think you might change your mind soon enough. Besides, I actually have some good news for once."

Sam jerked in his direction, glancing firstly at Dean who seemed to be fighting to stay awake. "Dean, stay with me. Dean, hang in there, please!"

"Ah don't worry about him champ. I'm sure whoever brought him back after he blew himself away would do it again. That I have no doubt."

Dean's eyes widened at what YED had said. He turned to Sam who appeared downright confused. "What?"

"Oh, do you not know? Brother dear didn't tell you?" The YED seemed genuinely shocked. "That's exciting! How do you think he found out about what's been going on? Oh it's a marvelous story I tell you. It should win an award. Apparently Sammy, you were on your last leg…and poor little Deanie just couldn't bear it if you had died…"

"Stop it!" Dean cried. "Shut up!"

"…so what did he do? He blew his head off in the hopes that you'll get his heart and live. Only damn, it didn't work. Dean learned well, didn't cha boy? And rumor has it that someone brought him back. Zip. On came down the light"-he shimmied his arms down in a dramatic display-"and Dean Winchester, son of the miserable John Winchester was resurrected, made to live another day, made"-he looked down condescendingly at Sam-"to take care of you, to prevent something like _me_ doing something to _you_."

Sam shakily turned towards Dean and pleaded, begging him that it was a lie, that none of it was true. Dean shamefully turned away.

"Uh huh, and apparently whoever it was –not sure yet to be honest- is stopping me from finishing up my long hard work I've poured centuries into," the demon looked back at Dean, "You didn't think I was going to find out, did you? Yeah I found out. And immediately when I did, I had to act."

To Sam's disgust, the demon crouched down low, placing the man's ear against his chest. "Ah, listen to that thing. It's going strong, isn't it? Can't you feel it Sammy? Can't you? You know it's no ordinary heart, right?" He glanced back towards Dean again. "But I'm sure you knew that already, Dean. And I'm sure you realized by now why Sammy came down with heart failure in the first place, huh?"

Small tremors bore in Sam's hands. It had to be a lie. All of it. He looked to Dean again, and for the second time, his brother didn't protest. He gasped, unable to handle the blow.

Dean panted, his pallor becoming ashen. "L-leave…him a-alone. W-we d-don't k-know a-anything."

"Hmmm, not yet. But I'm sure it's crossed your mind. I mean come on, you found out about your dad. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out about your brother, about that night I killed your mom, about your daddy's deal he made with me to…oh, ha, get this, to save you." He hissed. "So pathetic…and such a waste of good talent too. Here, I was scared, because your daddy outmatched all the others; my toughest opponent yet. But hey, since that deal, it was free game. Didn't have to worry about you Winchesters, especially with Sammy's nasty condition as of late…"

Despite dying, Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes. The guy loved to talk!

"But as I've said, at least I've got some good news for you. Your daddy just won a get-out-of-jail-free card. Someone busted him out of the pit, and my money's on the perps who brought your worthless ass back."

Sam kept his eyes on Dean, a deep sorrow growing within his demeanor. It was comprised of so many emotions; it was hard to keep up with the myriad of them all. But most of all what Dean saw was disappointment. Disappointment shown in great detail, marring the once happy and carefree face; it was the biggest bruise Dean had ever known.

"So I need to cut things short, because I'm sure whoever they are –and I have a really good idea of who- might be on their way. And I have no intention of being here when they do." His smile grew even more sadistic, and his yellow eyes gleamed of malicious intent.

Dean squirmed, his bottom half now numb. He prayed for Caroline to show. He prayed for someone to do something. "No…n-no. S-stop."

"Sorry Dean. Your brother was always mine to begin with. It was his destiny. Don't worry, he's a strong chap. I have no doubt he'll survive the first round."

"N-no. S-s-sammy."

Sam screamed too. He worked hard against the confines of Bobby's wooden chair. The YED laughed once more, its shrill cackles acting like sharp knives on their ears. Sam shared a look with his brother once more: one full of pain, disappointment, and fear. And Dean read every part of it: _Please, don't let him take me Dean! Big Brother, save me!_

"Dean!"

The last breath of air escaped him, as finally his mind succumbed to the numbing effects of the bullet. There was no light, just unnatural darkness. There was no hot burning, no carillon of bells heralding his guardian angel…just the sound of his brother's screams fading with a_ pop _as the YED took him, and Dean fell into the blissful darkness, without the hope of ever seeing neither his family, nor the sun or moon again.

**To Be Continued….**

**Are you really sure you want that sequel now?**

**Well, now that's what I call a shitty ending. Shitty, but necessary! I told you it would be bad…and just think, the epilogue is much worse. ;) But until we get the sequel up and rolling (which will be soon, I promise) I want to thank everyone who has read, pm'd, alerted, faved, and of course, reviewed this story. Seriously, without ya'lls support, this never would have been completed. And again, I cannot express how sorry I am for the longevity of this fic. But know, it won't happen for the sequel. Til then, love ya guys! You'll see me again with new stuff. **

**Tootles!**


	28. Sequel Announcement

**Hi Guys, **

**I just wanted to let you know that the sequel to this story is up and running. It's titled "Home is Where you Make it." I've given you a recap, a prologue, and the first chapter. Enjoy!**

**Tina ;P**


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